
Class 


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Book__ 


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115 



GENERAL POST 



GENERAL POST 

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 



BY 

J: e; HAROLD TERRY 



-r .>" 



SECOND EDITION 



NEW YORK 

E. P. BUTTON AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 

1918 






Jj--;/ 



7% 



First Published May ijth, 1917 
Second Edition, 1918 



TO 
PERCY HUTCHISON 

AND 

HERBERT JAY 

TO WHOSE INITIATIVE AND ENTERPRISE 
THE PRODUCTION OF THIS PLAY WAS 
DUE, AND WHOSE UNFAILING COURTESY 
AND CONSIDERATION RENDERED THAT 
PRODUCTION A LABOUR OF LOVE FOR 
ALL CONCERNED, I DEDICATE 
THIS VOLUME. 

J. E. H. T. 



NOTICE TO 
AMATEUR DRAMATIC SOCIETIES 



The amateur acting rights of " General Post " 
are strictly reserved. When they are released, 
in due course, all enquiries concerning them 
should be addressed to — 

Messrs Samuel French, Ltd., 
26 Southampton Street, 
Strand, 

London, W.C.2 



PEOPLE OF THE PLAY 

Sir Dennys Broughton, Bart. 

Lady Broughton ... His wife 

Alec His son 

Betty His daughter 

Wilson His butler 

Edward Smith His tailor 

Albert Smith His tailor^ s brother 



ACT I 
ACT II 
ACT III 



19T1 

1915 



19 



? 



Scene : 

The Morning-room of Sir Dennys Broughton's 
residence — " Grange Court" near Sheffingham. 



This play was presented for the first time in London 
at the Haymarket Theatre by Frederick Harrison, in 
conjunction with Percy Hutchison and Herbert Jay, 
on Wednesday, March 14th, 191 7 — the cast being 
as follows : — 



Sir Dennys Broughton 

Lady Broughton 

Alec 

Betty 

Wilson 

Edward Smith 

Albert Smith 



Norman M^Kinnel 
Lilian Braithwaite 
Henry Daniell 
Madge Titheradge 
Edgar A. Marvin 
George Tally 
Fewlass Llewellyn 



GENERAL POST 



ACT I 

Scene : The morning-room of Sir Dennys Brough- 
ton's residence — ^' Grange Court^^ near 
Sheffingham. 

An entirely delightful room, in the designing of which 
primary consideration has been given to the cofn- 
fortof the occupant^ without in any way detracting 
from the appeal to the eye. 

Every advantage has been taken of its sunny situation 
— white paint and gaily-coloured chintzes contrive 
to keep it bright even upon the dullest day, while 
floivering plants^ and bowls and vases of cut 
flowers^ "^arranged'' by somebody who loves 
flowers and understands them, add to its charm 
immeasurably. 

At the back of the room are three steps leading to a 
French window^ ivhich opens into the garden. 
When its doors are thrown wide, as they are at 
the moment that the curtain rises upon the 
play, one looks out on to a lazvn of velvet turf 
shaded be?ieath the branches of a giant cedar, and 
on to flower borders radiant with bloom. 

It is ten d clock of a June morning, as perfect as 
the heart of man could desire, and the sunshine 
streaming into the room through the open windows 
breaks in little sparks of light upon the china 

9 



lo GENERAL POST 

figures that Lady Broughton is dusting with 
an almost tender care^ and crowns with a halo the 
carefully-tended head of her son, Alec, who 
reposes at his ease in an arm-chair, glancing at 
the head-lines of the morning paper. 

Lady Broughton is a good-looking woman of forty- 
two. She is, furthermore, an extremely nice 
woman, and deservedly popular. She is good- 
natured and kind-hearted, and slow to think evil 
of anybody. Her one weakness, which she shares 
in common with most of her social standing, is a 
certain pride of birth, and an inflexible belief in 
the importance of " belonging to the county. ^^ She 
divides all mankind into two classes — " The 
county people,^^ and the rest. If one is of the 
first, one is necessarily a person to be cultivated. 
If not, then a person to be " nice to " — and no 
more. A suggestion of intimacy with aftybody 
who is fiot ^'' county''^ is unthinkable. ^^ One 
must stick to one^s own class ! " 

Lady Broughton is a devoted wife and an adoring 
mother, and it is a great grief to her that she and 
her daughter do not ^^ get on together.''^ She has 
never had any trouble with her son. His " ideas " 
are in entire harmony with hers. Their affectio7t 
is mutual, a7td Lady Broughton is as much 
Alec's confidant as he is hers. But with Betty it 
is different. She appears to " take after " neither 
her father nor her mother, and is a perpetual 
problem and enigma to them both. Her brother 
regards her as a '■^ silly little idiot.^^ Betty's 
continual complaint it is that nobody ^^under- 
stands " her. In this she is perfectly correct — 
but the main trouble is that she fails equally to 
understand herself. Her brother, in his mental 



GENERAL POST ii 

outlook, is of the same generation as his parents. 
She is J essentially, of her ow7i. She is restless 
and dissatisfied, impatient of the conventions that 
restrain her from " doing things. ^^ Of what the 
^^ things" are that she would wish to ^^ do" she 
has no very clear coiiception. She has read, sur- 
reptitiously, certain works arising out of the 
feminist movement, and their defiant and audacious 
phrases have fostered her revolt. Betty is pos- 
sessed of a dormant intellectuality which is not 
to be satisfied by the " mental pabulum " upon 
which '"''the County^' as a whole, subsists and 
thrives. She is contemptuous of her parents^ 
friends. They are dull and stupid. They never 
talk about anything worth talking about. As for 
her brother s boon companions, they are worse 
still — ''''mere animals" ^''horrible creatures'' 
The people who ^^ know" things and ^^ do" things 
are not to be fou7id in her own class — atid so 
Betty has arrived at a stage of desperation 
which has found its only outlet in ''''social work " 
in the slums of Sheffingham. Permission to 
engage in this has been wrung from her parents 
only after the most heated argument, and desperate 
threats of running away if it was withheld. Up 
to now the expedient has seemed to '''"work" quite 
well. Betty has become a different person — no 
longer " difficile,'^ but always radiant and cheer- 
ful, and surprisingly amenable. That the reason 
for this is to be discovered not in her work but in 
the people — or 7nore especially in one of the people 
— with whom she is able now to associate, her 
parents have not the least suspicion. A welcome 
atmosphere of calm has enveloped the household, 
and they are only too content to accept the situation 
and to leave it at that. 



12 GENERAL POST 

Some indication of Alec Broughton's character has 
been given in the foregoing remarks. He is a 
young man of excellent qualities and stereotyped 
ideas ^ which^ like the ^^ Broughton chin" have 
been handed down from father to son through 
countless generations. His intellectual attain- 
ments are not such as to afford him distinction 
on his easy way through life — indeed^ as his sister 
points out, they have proved insufficient to enable 
him to pass the " Littlego " — but that is really an 
advantage to him rather than a drawback. He 
was never intended for a career — as the term is 
generally understood. His destiny it is to fill 
adequately the place of his father, when that good 
gentleman shall, in the fullness of time, have passed 
away, and to control some 30,000 acres of land 
with as little loss to himself a?id as miich profit to 
his neighbours as each preceding Baronet has done. 

Alec is a nice-looking lad of twenty-two, without 
notable virtues or notable vices. He is an ex- 
cellent shot, a good horse77ian, and a capital hand 
with a cue — which accomplishments have rendered 
him an object of considerable admiration amongst 
other young fellows of his age and social position. 

He is wearing '■^flannels " and a light coat. 

Alec. Phew ! This sun's jolly hot ! 

Lady B. Shall I let the sun-blind down, dear ? 

Alec. No, don't bother, Mater. It's not worth 

while. I'm going out in a minute. 
Lady B. Going on the river ? 
Alec. No ; I told young Ronny Wareing I'd have 

him a single at tennis. I expect he'll give me an 

awful hiding. He's been playing for Oxford, you 

know. 



GENERAL POST 13 

Lady B. Has he got his Blue ? 

Alec. No ; but he's pretty sure to next year. He's 

jolly hot stuff ! 
Lady B. How proud his mother'!! be if he does ! 

Give her my love, dear, and tell her I'm coming 

over to see her carnations next week. I hear 

they're the best in the county. 
Alec. Right-o ! 

Sir Dennys Broughton enters by the window. 
He is a well-built man of slightly over fifty ^ 
and just beginning to incline to portliness. 
An excellent colour^ a clear eye^ and a weather- 
beaten skin are token of a healthy life, spent, 
for the most part, in the open. A capital 
fellow is Sir Dennys — generous , free-handed, 
and good-natured. But his ideas upon the 
^^ county ^^ and all that the term stands for 
are as fixed and rigid as are those of his 
wife, and if one ''^ comes up against''' them 
one ^^ comes up againsf^ a barrier of adamant. 
As is to be expected of such a nature, Sir 
Dennys is a Tory of the Tories. There is 
only OTie country worthy to be held in honour 
of all nations, and that country is England. 
Th£re is only one Church for a gentleman to 
belong to, and that is the Church of England. 
There is only one party that is not compound 
of traitors, rogues, and felons, and that is the 
Conservative party. These are the three 
great fundamental truths, and do not admit 
of argument. 

Sir Den. You're nice people, sitting indoors a 
lovely morning like this ! It's perfect — simply 
perfect. 

Alec. It's jolly hot in here. 



14 GENERAL POST 

Sir Den. Ah, but there's a nice breeze outside. . . . 

My word, Marian, those delphiniums of yours are 

coming on splendidly. There'll be a fine show of 

them in a day or two. 
Lady B. I thought they looked as though they 

were going to do well. 
Sir Den. They'll be magnificent — magnificent ! 

. . . Has the paper come ? 
Alec. Here you are, Pater. 
Sir Den. No, no, my boy. You finish with it. 

I'm in no hurry. Any news ? 
Alec. Nothing of any interest — except a jolly 

good letter from old Cholmondeley letting into that 

Territorial Military Sunday idea. By Gad, he 

does give it 'em hot ! {He chuckles) 
Sir Den. I'm delighted to hear it. It was high 

time that somebody spoke out. Do you know 

that they had the confounded cheek to write to me 

the other day and ask me if I wouldn't persuade 

you to join ? 
Alec. I say ! Did they really ? 
Sir Den. They did, indeed. 
Lady B. I never heard such a thing ! Of all the 

impertinence ! 
Sir Den. It's amazing! To suggest that- my son 

should march beside my butcher, my baker, and 

my candlestick-maker at the head of all the rag-tag 

and bob-tail of the city — well, it's — it's hardly 

credible ! 
Alec. By Gad, they have got a nerve ! 
Lady B. I hope you wrote them a very stiff letter. 
Sir Den. I ignored the thing altogether. I always 

think it's the best way simply to take no notice 

of these things. 
Alec I can't help laughing at their cheek ! Your 

tailor's a captain in 'em, isn't he? 



GENERAL POST 15 

Sir Den. Something of the sort. 

Lady B. He really looks very well in his uniform. 
I saw them marching down the High Street the 
other day, and I was surprised to see what a good- 
looking lot of men they were. 

Sir Den. They may look all right. I've no doubt 
they do. You can paint a tin soldier to look well. 
But wait until we come to war. Then we shall 
find out our mistake. 

Alec. By Jove, yes ! 

Sir Den. Now the old Volunteers were a fine set 
of men — splendid fellows. But this wretched 
Government couldn't leave them alone — and what's 
the result ? Do you find them having anything to 
do with this territorial nonsense ? Not one in 
ten ! More than half the backbone of the country 
lost to it ! 

Lady B. {Sighing) I don't know what we're 
coming to. It all seems very sad. 

Sir Den. It is sad ! But it's what's bound to happen 
once the democracy gets the upper hand. The 
decent people simply withdraw from public life. 
Take a man like myself, for instance. Am I to 
be at the beck and call of a pack of self-seeking 
rogues, who have no idea who their grandfathers 
were, and, very often, not even who their fathers 
were? 
Lady B. Indeed, no ! 

Sir Den. It's a bad look-out — a very bad look-out 1 
... By the way. Alec, isn't there any news from 
Morocco this morning ? 
Alec. Germany's sent a gun-boat to Agadir. 
Sir Den. What for ? 

Alec. I don't know ; and the paper ain't very clear 
on the point — but they seem to think it may mean 
trouble for us. 



1 6 GENERAL POST 

Lady B. Not war, surely? 

Alec. That's the idea. 

Lady B. Oh, I do hope not ! 

Sir Den. ( With Jovial scorn) War ! Pshaw ! 
Don't you worry your head, my dear. We shan't 
see war with Germany in our time, or in Alec's 
either, for the matter o' that ! 

Lady B. {IVot with entire confidence) I hope you're 
right, dear. 

Sir Den. Right ? Of course I'm right ! Germany's 
not such a fool as to tackle us. She knows jolly 
well that she'd be wiped off the map in a week. 
Besides, she's dependent on us for more than half 
her trade. D'you think she's going to risk losing 
that ? Not she ! 

Alec. Then what's she making all these prepara- 
tions for? — laying down new Dreadnoughts, and 
all the rest of it 1 

Sir Den. Bluff, my boy, bluff! She's hoping to 
frighten us into giving her what she knows she can 
never hope to take from us by force. And I 
shouldn't be a bit surprised if she succeeds ! 
We're doing all we can to encourage her ! We've 
cut down the Army, and now they want us to cut 
down the Navy. Upon my word, it's pitiable ! It 
really is ! 

Alec. Well, we shall see what she does about this 
Agadir business. 

Sir Den. She'll climb down, my boy ! It's the only 
thing for her to do ! You see if I'm not right. 

Alec. Is Betty still as set on going to Germany as 
she was ? 

Lady B. No, thank goodness ! This work that she's 
doing now seems to have taken her mind off it. 

Alec. What is she doing ? 

Sir Den. I've asked that question a hundred times 



GENERAL POST 17 

if I've asked it once, and nobody seems able to 
give me an answer. 

Lady B. She never tells me anything about it, but, 
so far as I can make out, it's social work — soup 
kitchens and care-committees, and so on ! 

Alec. Sounds exciting ! 

Sir Den. Well, anyhow, it keeps her out of mis- 
chief — and that's the great thing. We never had 
any peace in the house until we agreed to let her 
take it up. 

Lady B. She's certainly been much easier to do 
with since. 

Alec. I can't make her out. She's the rummest 
girl I ever knew. Why can't she be content to be 
like other people? She could have such a jolly 
good time here if she liked — but, no, she must 
needs go trapesing down into the slums of 
Sheffingham, doing all sorts of dirty work which 
might quite well be done by — well — by somebody 
who isn't a lady. I think it's disgusting, myself ! 

Lady B. My dear, I gave the problem up long ago. 
Betty's a law unto herself. 

Sir Den. {Comfortably) She'll grow out of it. 
It's just a little foolishness that lots of girls get at 
her age. It's like the mumps or the measles. 
They've got to have 'em some time. Far better have 
'em whilst they're young. Get over 'em quicker. 

Alec. But she's so beastly rude to everybody — 
so confoundedly superior ! Everlastingly jawing 
about intellect, and rot of that sort — "things that 
matter," whatever they may be ! She told Ronny 
Wareing the other night — a chap who's just going 
to get his Blue ! — that his mental outlook would 
disgrace a Hottentot ! 

Sir Den. She shouldn't have done that. 

Alec. Your friends aren't good enough for her — 



1 8 GENERAL POST 

neither are mine ! I'd like to know who she meets 

in Sheffingham who's so much superior to them. 
Lady B. I really don't know. It was Miss Prender- 

gast who got her to take it up. 
Alec. That old frump ! I shouldn't have thought 

she was remarkable for her intellect. 
Lady B. Well, anyhow, we can be certain that she 

doesn't associate with anybody who isn't desirable. 

Miss Prendergast assured me that the people who 

were doing it were all quite nice. 
Alec. H'm ! Well, I hope she's right. 

Wilson enters. He carries a note upon a salver, 

Wilson. A note for you, m'lady. 

Lady B. (^Having taken the note from the salver and 
observed that it has been sent by hand) Any answer ? 

Wilson. I don't think so, m'lady. The young 
woman who brought it has gone away again. 

Lady B. Oh ! {^She makes him a gesture of dis- 
missal) That's all right then, Wilson. 

Wilson bows and withdraws. 

Alec. Well, I think I'll be off now, Mater. 

Sir Den. Where're you going to ? 

Alec. The Wareings. 

Lady B. {As she tears open the flap of the envelope) 
This note's from Mrs Wareing. There may be 
some message for you in it. You'd better wait 
and see. 

Alec. All right. 

Lady Broughton proceeds to read the letter. 

When Alec rosefro77i his seat with the intention 
of going out, he gave the newspaper he had 
been reading to his father, who, not finding 
his spectacles in their accustomed pocket, has 
been looking all over for them since. 



GENERAL POST 19 

Sir Den. {To Alec) Have you seen my glasses 

anywhere ? 
Alec. No. 

Ife proceeds to join m the search for them, 
which is arrested by a sudden exclamation 
from Lady Broughton. 
Lady B. Oh ! This is too bad ! 
Sir Den. What's the matter ? 

Lady B. {Holding the note out to him) Read that ! 

Sir Den. I've lost my glasses. I — You read it, dear. 

Lady Broughton reads the letter aloud. 

Lady B. " My dearest Marian, 

I know you dislike people who poke their noses 
into things that don't concern them. So do L 
They're loathsome creatures ! But sometimes one 
feels that it's one's bounden duty to open peoples' 
eyes to things that are going on behind their 
backs, and of which they have no idea. I hate 
telling tales out of school, and I'm sure Betty will 
never forgive me if she finds out " 

A dawning comprehension shows in Alec's 
face. He looks up with a little chuckle — not 
exactly malicious^ but distinctly impish. 
Alec. Betty, eh? This sounds as if it might be 

quite interesting ! 
Sir Den. {Impatiently) What's it all about ? 
Lady B. Sh-sh ! {She continues reading) " — if 
she finds out, but I do think you ought to 
know, dear, what people are saying. Ever since 
Christmas I've heard all sorts of stories connecting 
her name with that of a Mr Smith — a tailor, I 
believe, in Sheffingham " 

All the laughter goes out of hsj&dsface. He 
is consumed by righteous indignation. 



20 GENERAL POST 

Alec. Well, Fm ! 



Sir Den. ( Who is beginning to grow irritable) 
Smith! What's Smith to do with Betty? 

Lady B. Just wait, dear, and you'll hear. {She returns 
to the letter) " I took no notice of them for a long 
time. I just put it down to mahcious gossip. Ethel 
Prendergast had told me that the man was one of 
her workers in the slums, and I knew that Betty was, 
too. But last night I happened to be in Sheffingham 
rather late, and, as we were driving home, we passed 
Betty walking arm-in-arm with somebody. I didn't 
recognize the man she was with at all, but my maid, 
who was sitting in front with the chauffeur, tells me 
that it was this person, Smith, and that she has often 
seen Betty walking home with him." {She crumples 
the letter in her hand^ and exclaims in exaspera- 
tion : — ) Did you ever hear such a thing ? Arm-in- 
arm with a common tailor ! 

Alec. It's about the thickest thing I've ever heard ! 

My sister ! Well, I'll be ! His sense of 

personal injury renders him incoherent) 

Sir Den. But I thought you said that Miss 
Prendergast had assured you 

Lady B. She did ! I shall never forgive Ethel 
Prendergast — never, as long as I live ! 

Alec. What're you going to do about it ? 

Lady B. What can we do? It makes me so 
ashamed that 

Sir Den. Oh, there must be some mistake ! Dash 

it, we've only Elsie Wareing's word for it ! And I 

don't see how she can be certain who she passes 

in a car at night-time ! We must give the girl a 

chance to deny the story. . . . Where is Betty ? 

Betty appears suddenly at the windotv, and, 

replying to Sir Dennys' enquiry^ di-ops him 

a m^ck curtsey. 



GENERAL POST 21 

Betty. {Saucily) Obedient to her father's call, 
she comes ! 

She trips gaily down the steps^ a basket of lilies 
in her arms. She is a bonny girl with any 
amount in her. The rest of her character- 
istics have been told already. 
Betty has 7nuch to learn and more to unlearn — 
and none can teach her save Experience. She 
goes in coaxing fashion to her mother. 
Mother, dearie, you won't be cross with me for 
cutting all your lovely lilies, will you ? But they 
are so badly off for flowers at the hospital — and 
these were so heavenly that I just couldn't resist 
them ! 

Lady Broughton makes no reply. There is 
an awkward silejtce. 
What's the matter ? 
Sir Den. {Uncomfortably) Well, you see, my dear 
— er — the fact is — er — {To Lady Broughton) 
Oh, show her the letter ! 
Betty. A letter ? Who from ? 
Lady B. {Holding it out to her) You'd better 

read it. 
Betty. Need I, mother ? Can't you tell me what's 

in it 1 
Sir Den. {Hurriedly) No, no ! You read it ! 
Betty. It's not to say that anybody's — dead, is it ? 
Lady B. ( With rising impatience) No, no, child ! 

Read it ! 
Betty. Oh, very well! Only I thought you all 
looked so grave — 

She reads the letter. All watch her curiously. 
As she reads she gives an exclamation of 
annoyance^ and finally she flings the letter 
from her. 



22 GENERAL POST 

(Indignantly) Why can't people mind their own 
business ? 

Her outburst confirms the worst fears of her 
parents and her brother. They exchange 
despairing glances. 

Lady B. You don't deny the truth of what Mrs 
Wareing says, then ? 

Betty. {Defiantly) It's nothing to be ashamed of. 

Alec. Nothing to be ashamed of! Good Heavens ! 

Betty. {To Alec) No, it isn't! — and, even if it 
was, it's no business of yours ! 

Lady B. {On the verge of breaking down) Oh, 
Betty, Betty, how could you ? 

Sir Den. {Forgetful that the old-fashioned style of 
exerting the parental authority is not of the least 
avail where his daughter is concerned) Come here, 
girl ! Have you got the audacity to stand before 
me and declare that you see nothing to be ashamed 
of in being seen walking about the country arm-in- 
arm with my tailor? 

Betty. It's not a bit of use talking to me like that. 
Father ! Mr Smith may be your tailor. I don't 
say that he isn't. But he is, also, a most charming 
and well-educated gentleman. 

Alec. Gentleman ! Tcha ! 

Betty. Oh, not at all your idea of a gentleman ! 
He doesn't drink, and he doesn't swear, and he 
doesn't pick up girls ! 

Lady B. {In shocked protest) Betty ! Betty ! My 
dear ! 

Sir Den. Well, upon my word ! Really I 1 

Alec. He seems to have picked you up all right ! 

Betty. Yes ; that would be your idea of a gentle- 
man's retort 1 

Sir Den. Will you two stop wrangling ! Really, 



GENERAL POST 23 

Betty, you amaze me ! How you can be so 
indelicate — particularly in front of your mother ! — 
I 

Lady Broughton gives a gesture as much as 
to say, " Oh, Tm quite used to it I " 

Betty. Isn't Mother supposed to know what goes 
on in the world ? 

Lady B. To listen to you, dear, one would think 
that Mother wasn't supposed to know anything. 

Sir Den. Or Father, either ! 

Lady B. I know you think us old-fashioned, and 
stupid — well, perhaps we are. But whatever we've 
done for you, Betty, we've tried to do for your 
good. 

Betty. That's the worst of it ! 

Sir Den. {Amazed) Worst of it ? 

Betty. Yes. Because you've done wrong, feeling 
honestly that it was right. 

Sir Den. Well, I'm ! 

Betty. I was never meant for the sort of life that 
you want me to live — for the sort of friends that 
you want me to have. They're all content to 
grow up like vegetables. I'm not ! I want to 
make something of my life. I want to be with 
the people who do things, and who can teach me 
how to do things, too. 

Alec. Such as tailoring, for example ! 

Betty. I wonH be the slave of my ancestors ! 
They're dead and gone, thank goodness, and 
their ghosts aren't going to bother me ! I don't 
care a scrap who my grandfather was. I should 
have been just as happy if he'd been a rag-and- 
bone man. The fact that he wasn't isn't going to 
keep me from knowing the people whose grand- 
fathers were — if they're people worth knowing. 



24 GENERAL POST 

Sir Den. What's all this nonsense got to do with 
Smith ? 

Alec. I expect his grandfather was a rag-and-bone 
man ! 

Betty. ( With intensity) You are a. beast, Alec ! 

Sir Den. Will you please answer my question ? 

Betty. Mr Smith is the first man I've ever met 
who's got a brain worth calling a brain ! 

Sir Den. {Highly offended) Oh, indeed ! 

Betty. There you go, you see ! You get annoyed 
with me just because — oh, what's the use of talk- 
ing ? {She turns suddenly and almost violently upon 
her father) What do you know of Sudermann or 
Nietzsche ? 

Sir Den. Nothing to their credit ! 

Betty's sense of humour gets the better of her 
annoyance. She bursts into a peal of laughter. 

Betty. Oh, Father, you are funny ! If only Mr 

Smith could have heard you say that, he 

Sir Den. {Apoplectically) Damn Mr Smith ! 

Lady B. My dear ! 

Sir Den. I mean it ! Now listen to me, Betty. 

This — er — acquaintanceship of yours must cease 

at once. 
Betty. Why ? 
Sir Den. Because I say so ! — and there's an end 

of it! 
Betty. I'm afraid I don't agree with you. 
Sir Den. What do you mean ? 
Betty. What I say. If you can give me any reason 

— except pure snobbishness — why I should not 

know Mr Smith, I'm quite willing to listen to you. 

Otherwise 

Sir Den. Do you dare to insinuate that your mother 

and I are snobs? 



GENERAL POST 25 

Betty. Supposing that Mr Smith, the tailor, had 

been Lord Tom Noddy, the millionaire, would you 

have made all this fuss ? 
Lady B. My dear, what is the use of supposing? 
Betty. Would you ? 

A slight pause. Betty persists : — 

Would you ? 
Sir Den. Your Mother and I are not here to be 

cross-questioned by you. Dash it ! One might 

think that our positions were entirely reversed, and 

that we were being called to account by you for — 

for — for 

Betty. For being snobs ! So you are ! 

Sir Den. Be silent, girl ! I will not tolerate this 

impertinence to your mother and to myself. 
Lady B. Betty fails to realize that there is a diifer- 

ence between snobbishness and proper pride — a 

quality, I'm sorry to say, which she seems to 

lack altogether. One can be quite nice to one's 

inferiors, without being called upon to be intimate 

with them. 
Sir Den. Precisely ! 
Betty. Mr Smith is not my inferior! He's the 

superior of anybody in this room ! 
Alec. Well, I'm dashed ! 
Betty. {To Alec) It wouldn't have taken him 

three years to pass the Littlego ! 
Alec. No ? Well, you ought to know more than I 

do about Board School scholars ! 
Betty. You needn't be a cad ! 
Sir Den. I've told you two before I will not have 

this wrangling ! Listen to your Mother, Betty, and 

attend to what she has to say. 
Lady B. I only wanted to try and point out that 

none of us — particularly a young unmarried girl — 

can afford to openly defy convention. 



26 GENERAL POST 

Sir Den. Exactly — exactly ! 

Lady B. We know that Betty has been foolish, very 
foolish — but only foolish. Not everybody will be 
so charitable. {She addresses her daughter directly) 
Have you thought of the sort of thing that'll be 
said of you ? 

Betty. {Obstinately dense) No. What will be said ? 

Lady B. (Not without irony) With your know- 
ledge of the world, dear, I shouldn't have thought 
that it would have been necessary for me to — to 
go into details. 

Betty. You mean that your friends — the real ladies 
and gentlemen that you and Alec are so keen on 
— will suggest that I am Mr Smith's mis 

Before she can pronounce the second syllable of 
the word, Sir Dennys has interrupted with 
a scandalized and war?iing cry of: — 

Sir Den. Betty ! 

Lady B. {Quite quietly, but with a tightening of her 
lips) Just a minute, dear. If Betty wants plain 
speaking, she'd better have it. {She turns to her 
daiighter) I did not mean that that is what is 
likely to be said — yet. But it might soon come to 
it. If a girl of good family, who has been gently 
brought up, and given every opportunity of asso- 
ciating with people of her own class, deliberately 
chooses to stoop to her inferiors for her friends — 
if she is content to demean herself to such an 
extent as to behave like a domestic servant on 
her night out, and to be seen walking down dark 
lanes arm-in-arm with her father's tradesmen — 
then she must expect to be treated accordingly. 
A girl who has so lost her self-respect doesn't 
deserve, and certainly will never have, the respect 
of other people. Her own class will refuse to have 



GENERAL POST 27 

anything further to do with her — and that's whatll 
happen to you if you're going on Hke this. 

Sir Den. {To Betty) I associate myself com- 
pletely with what your mother has said. 

Alec. Yes, by Jove, you put it jolly well, Mater ! 

Betty says not a word^ and they interpret her 
silence as a sign of yielding. Alec continues: — 

Dash it all, Betty, you might think of us a bit ! 
Nice sort of asses we shall feel if this yarn gets 
about. It'll mean that we shall simply have to 
clear out, and leave the place altogether. And I 
do think that that'd be rough luck on the Mater. 
It's simply beastly the position you're putting her 
and the Pater into. It's pretty rotten for me, too 
— though I know I don't count much. How can I 
go to the Wareings now — after this has happened ? 
I should be simply too ashamed to show my face. 

Betty. {Quite calmly^ and with a little tired smile) 
Poor Alec ! I suppose you just can't help being a 
snob. 

Sir Den. {Combatively) Eh? 

Betty. Oh, don't let's begin it all over again. We've 
said quite sufficient nasty things already to spoil 
this lovely day. But I do want you to have your 
facts right. 

Sir Den. {Grunts) Well? 

Betty. {Very quietly) Mr Smith has brought me 
back from Sheffingham four times. Each time 
because I asked him. I have only taken his arm 
once — when it was so dark that I couldn't see my 
way. That must have been the time that Mrs 
Wareing passed us. I remember a car did nearly 
run over us. 

Lady B. You actually asked this man to see you 
home? 



28 GENERAL POST 

Betty. Yes. 

Lady B. {With a sigh of desperation) Oh ! 

Sir Den. But if you didn't like coming back alone 

— and I certainly shouldn't have wished you to do 

so — why didn't you have the car to meet you ? 
Betty. Because I preferred to walk back with Mr 

Smith. 
Lady B. You mean you deliberately planned to be 

alone with him ? 
Betty. I suppose so. 
Alec. But — dash it ! — one might think you were in 

love with the fellow ! 
Betty. {Still very quietly) I am. 

The pause of stupefaction which ensues is broken 
upon by Wilson, who enters^ and stands by 
the door awaiting permission to speak. 

Sir Den. {Testily) What is it, Wilson ? What is it ? 

Wilson. Mr Smith to see you, Sir Dennys. 

There is silence for a moment. Sir Dennys, 
LadyBroughton andAiMC look significantly 
from one to the other. Betty alone is, to all 
outward seeming^ unaffected by the announce- 
ment. She avoids the eyes of the others, and 
looks straight ahead of her. 
Sir Den. {Uncomfortably) H'm — yes — yes — that's 
very awkward ! I remember now I arranged for 
him to come and measure me for a new suit this 
morning. T't — t't — t't — ! Dear, oh dear ! How 
very tiresome ! Better show him into the library, 
Wilson, and say that I'll see him in a moment. 
Wilson. Very good. Sir Dennys. 

He goes out. The moment that the door has 
closed upon him, and before anybody else has 
a chance to say a word, Betty pounces upon 
her father. 



GENERAL POST 29 

Beti'y. (^Breathlessly) Are you going to say any- 
thing to Mr Smith ? 

Sir Den. That must remain to be seen. I shall do 
as I feel to be best. 

Betty. Because if you do — I warn you ! — if you say a 
single word, I shall go straight away and marry him ! 

The threat affects Sir Dennys like a blow in 
the belt. It renders him incapable of speech. 
He gives vent to a series of strange and 
inarticulate noises. Before he can recover 
himself sufficiejitly to make any reply ^ Betty 
has turned on her heel and passed through 
the window into the garden^ disregarding her 
mother s cry of: — 

Lady B. Betty ! Betty ! 

Sir Den. Well I'm — I'm — ! {He gulps down his 

indignatio?i as though it were a potato stuck in his 

throat) Here's a pretty kettle of fish ! My 

daughter in love with my tailor ! — and glorying 

in it ! Actually glorying in it ! 
Alec. I don't believe it ! She's only trying to 

frighten you by talking through her hat ! She 

doesn't mean what she says. 
Lady B. There you're wrong, dear ! Betty always 

means what she says. It's one of her worst faults. 
Sir Den. {Pathetic in his helplessness) Well — well 

— well, what the devil are we going to do now ? 
Alec. Pack her off to Germany ! She's always 

wanted to go there. And let her walk out with 

all the tailors in Berlin, if she likes. It won't 

matter to us. 
Lady B. (Protestingly) Alec, dear, please ! 
Sir Den. I can't think where she gets it from. My 

sisters were a little — er — advanced, I know. But, 

dash it all, they did draw the line at a tailor ! 



30 GENERAL POST 

Alec. Didn't one of them run oif with a jockey ? 

Lady B. My dear ! — a gentleman-]OQke.y ! 

Sir Den. What amazes me is that Smith should 
have permitted himself to be so — so led away ! 
IVe always found him a most sober, sensible, and 
respectful fellow. 

Lady B. ( Wisely) I've yet to discover the man 
whose head is screwed so firmly on his shoulders 
that a pretty girl can't turn it — if she's deter- 
mined to. 

Sir Den. I'm quite aware that the fault is mainly 
Betty's, but, all the same, I don't think I'll see 
Smith this morning. I should only lose my temper 
with him, and — and 

Lady B. I think you ought to, dear. 

Sir Den. You think I ought to say something to 
him about ? 

Lady B. Certainly I do. 

Sir Den. It's so very difficult. I — er— he's the 
only decent tailor in the place, and I don't want 
to lose him. 

Lady B. It can be done quite tactfully. 

Sir Den. Yes, perhaps so, but — you heard what 
Betty said — supposing he were to mention it to 
her 

Lady B. There are ways, dear, of pointing out to 
him that that would be a very foolish thing to do. 

Sir Den. H'm, yes — I suppose there are. But 
what are we going to do if he's in love with her. 

Lady B. {Sententiottsly) Tailors can't afford to 
fall in love with the daughters of their best 
customers. 

Sir Den. No — no — p'raps they can't ! I didn't 
think of that. But, all the same, it's very un- 
pleasant ! It's most unpleasant. 'Pon my word, 
if people only realized what trouble children give 



GENERAL POST 31 

one there wouldn't be another christening in this 
land for the next century ! 

Hi mops his brow in agitated fashion. 

Lady B. Will you see Smith in the library ? 

Sir Den. No ; I think I'd rather see him in here, 

if you don't mind. The library's so gloomy. It'd 

make me feel ten times worse. It's bright and 

sunny in here, and 

Lady B. Very well, dear. I'll tell Wilson to show 

him in. Come along, Alec. 
Alec. Right-o! Good luck to you. Pater. Mind 

you give 'im socks ! 
Lady B. {At the door) My dear boy, I do wish 

you'd get out of that dreadful habit of speaking to 

your Father as if he were a hosier ! 

Alec laughs. Lady Broughton is nearly out 
of the room when ajt afterthought occurs to 
her and she returns. 

Dennys, I don't think it'd do any harm if you 
hinted to Smith that Betty is likely to be going out 
of England immediately, and to be away for some 
time. 
Sir Den. ( Who has been absorbed in uncomfortable 
thoughts) Eh ? . . . Oh, very well, very well ! 
Lady Broughton goes out. Alec has preceded 

her. 
Before Wilson ushers Mr Smith into the 
room there ensues a slight interval which 
Sir Dennys occupies in pacing 7noodily up 
and down the carpet. 
Wilson throws open the door and announces : — 
Wilson. Mr Smith. 

Edward Smith enters. He is a tall and well- 
built mati in the prime of life, wearijig tJie 



32 GENERAL POST 

peace-time uniform of a Captain in a Terri- 
torial regiment. Seeing him thus^ nobody 
would imagine him to be engaged in trade. 
He does not suggest the amateur soldier in 
the least. He looks as though he had been in 
the ^'' Service'" for years. These observatio?ts 
apply equally to him when in mufti. His 
tipright bearing, his bronzed cheeks, and his 
little '■'■hogged''^ 7noustache are eloquent of a 
military training. 

Having remarked that Edward Smith is, in 
the main, self-educated, it becomes superfluous 
to add that his , education is eminently 
superior to that of the average public school 
and ' Varsity man. He is a person of con- 
siderable culture, which is lacking only i?t a 
knowledge of the more subtle niceties of 
social etiquette. Brought into unprofessional 
contact with his social superiors, he exhibits 
a certain lack of ease, is prone to commit cer- 
tain little gaucheries that make it evident that 
— in the catch-phrase of '''' the County''^ — he 
is " not quite the clean potato. ^^ Let it not be 
imagined that he would be guilty of an 
obvious solecism in such circumstances, but 
he never knows quite what to do with his 
hands. 

He brings with him into the room a leather 
case, containing patterns and samples of cloth, 
and a small hand-bag in which he carries 
the i^nplements of his trade — tape measure, 
scissors, chalks, pins, and so on. 

After greeting Sir Dennys he places these on 
the floor, and proceeds to unstrap the case 
containing his patterns. 
Smith. Good morning, Sir Dennys. 



GENERAL POST 3^ 

Sir Dennys. {Gruffly) Mornin' ! 

Smith. Another lovely day. 

Sir Dennys. Yes. 

Smith. Going to be very hot this afternoon, though, 

I'm afraid. 
Sir Den. Oh? 
Smith. There was quite a pleasant breeze first 

thing — but that's died down. 
Sir Den. H'm. 

A pause, during which Sir Dennys inspects 
Smith's uniform with critical and disap- 
proving eye. 

Got up to kill, I see. 

Smith. (Laughing) Oh, only in sham fight, Sir 
Dennys. I must apologize for coming like this, 
but we've got an inspection on Elsham Common 
at i.o, and it doesn't give me time to get back to 
Sheffingham and change. I felt sure that, in the 
circumstances, you 

Sir Den. That's' all right — that's all right. 

Smith. Thank you. . . . It's a lounge suit and a 
dinner-jacket that you require, isn't it, Sir Dennys ? 

Sir Den. Yes. . . . You know. Smith, I'm very 
disappointed in you. 

Smith. Really, Sir Dennys ? I'm sorry to hear that. 

Sir Den. I always used to think you a good busi- 
ness man — a chap of sound common sense. 

Smith. Yes ? 

Sir Den. And I'm amazed to see a man I always 
considered a sound Conservative actively support- 
ing a measure which is a disgrace even to a Radical 
Government. 

Smith. You are referring to ? 

Sir Den. To this preposterous Territorial business. 

Smith. But why, Sir Dennys ? 



34 GENERAL POST 

Sir Den. It was doomed to failure from the start. 

Smith. I don't think so. 

Sir Den. But I say it was ! 

Smith. {Very politely) Oh, of course, in that 

case . . . Perhaps you'd like to see some 

patterns. Sir Dennys. 
Sir Den. [Taking a bundle of patterns into his hand, 

but not examining them) Are you a believer in 

this " German menace '' ? 

He asks the question as though it were in- 
credible that anybody should be. 

Smith. I'm afraid I am, Sir Dennys. 

Sir Den. Well, you amaze me ! 'Pon my word, 
you do ! , 

Smith. Have you seen this morning's paper ? 

Sir Den. You mean this Morocco business? 

Smith. Yes. 

Sir Den. Bluff ! — sheer bluff ! — as I was saying to 
my son just now. It's astounding that you should 
permit yourself to be taken in by it. It's just what 
the Germans want. That's what they're after. 
If you're representative of the country, Heaven 
help us ! 

Smith. But even supposing that you're right, Sir 
Dennys, there's surely no harm in being prepared. 

Sir Den. Prepared ! You don't call this Territorial 
nonsense being prepared! Why, where are your 
officers ? And what use are they when you've got 
'em ? I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you 
can't expect the men to follow Tom, Dick, and 
Harry from Goodness knows where. So long as 
the upper classes refuse to come into it, the thing's 
doomed to failure. 

Smith. Lord Madeley's our Colonel. 

Sir Den. Madeley ! A discredited stockbroker, who 



GENERAL POST 35 

got his title by sheer jobbery ! I should hardly take 
him as representative of the upper class. 

Smith. What about General Tenby, then, Sir Dennys ? 
He's a warm supporter of the scheme. 

Sir Den. It's his job. He's paid for it. Besides, I 
referred to the upper class as a whole. There 
may be isolated examples, but 

Smith. Yes, as a whole, the upper class is hanging 
back badly. 

Sir Den. {Objecting strongly to the term) Hanging 
back! 

Smith. They ought to come into it. Sir Dennys. 
It's the duty of every able-bodied man in the 
country — no matter what his social standing. 

Sir Den. ( Warmly) And I say it is not^ Smith ! 
It is emphatically not the duty of any man who 
believes in the Conservative policy as I do — and 
as you ought to do ! — to support any Radical 
movement. No good ever came out of evil ! 

Smith. But, Sir Dennys ! 

Sir Den. {Holding up a restraining hand and speak- 
ing in his most magisterial tone) That's quite 
sufficient. Smith. There's another subject upon 
which I wish to speak to you, and I am particu- 
larly anxious to approach it with an open mind. 
I don't wish to feel annoyed with you beforehand. 
. . . Now, let me see, what are these patterns ? 

Smith. For a dinner-suit, Sir Dennys. 

Sir Den. {Running through them rapidly) They 
all look much of a muchness to me. Show me one 
that'll wear well. 

Smith. ( Taking the hook of patterns from him) Allow 
me. {He selects a pattern) We can confidently 
recommend that. Sir Dennys. We sell a lot of it. 

Sir Den. {Examining it) Looks to me as though 
it'd get shiny quickly. 



36 GENERAL POST 

Smith. Oh, no. That surface polish all comes out 

in the pressing. 
Sir Den. H'm. What'll this work out at ? 
Smith. {Examining the label on the back of the 

pattern) We can do you a suit in that cloth, 

Sir Dennys, at eight guineas. 
Sir Den. And quite sufficient, too ! Can't you make 

it a bit less ? 
Smith. Well, we might manage to reduce it to seven 

guineas — but, in that case, of course, we couldn't 

put you in such a good lining. 
Sir Den. Oh, the lining don't matter a damn ! 

What's the good of paying money for things that 

nobody but your servant sees? I don't believe 

in it. 
Smith. Have you any particular wishes with regard 

to the style of the suit, Sir Dennys ? 
Sir Den. No. Plenty of pockets and none o' that 

beastly braid down the side o' the leg. Can't bear 

it ! Sheer affectation ! 

Smith makes some entries in a 7iote'book, and 
then proceeds to fetch another book of patter 7is 
from his case. 

Smith. And now for the lounge suit. Sir Dennys. 

Do you wish a dark cloth or a light? 
Sir Den. Oh — medium. Not too dark. 
Smith. {Carrying the book of patterns over to Sir 

Dennys) We've a very nice thing here. Sir 

Dennys, that I think ought to suit you. It's quite 

new too. Only just come in. 
Sir Den. It's a curious colour. What d'you call it ? 
Smith. It's a little difficult to define. Sir Dennys. 

It's not quite a grey, and it's not quite a brown. 

It's known in the trade as " Elephant's breath." 
Sir Den. Elephant's what ? 



GENERAL POST 37 

Smith. Breath, Sir Dennys. 

Sir Den. And d'you think I'm going to be seen 
walking about Sheffingham dressed in Elephant's 
breath ? I never heard such a preposterous sug- 
gestion. It sounds positively indecent. . . . What 
are those things over there ? {He points to a roll 
of patterns in Smith's case) 

Smith. {Holding them up) These, Sir Dennys ? 

Sir Den. Yes. 

Smith. A selection of tweeds, Sir Dennys — 
Donegals. 

Sir Den. Oh — no crocodile coughs, or hyaena's 
hiccoughs amongst 'em ? 

Smith. (Laughing) No, Sir Dennys. 

Sir Den. Then let's have a look at 'em. 

Smith gives them to him. 

Ah ! that's more like it. {fie runs rapidly through 

the patterns until he chances upon one that takes his 

fancy) How d'you think that would make up, eh ? 
Smith. It ought to make up very well. 
Sir Den. Good wearing stuff? 
Smith. Guaranteed. 
Sir Den. How much ? 
Smith. Trousers and breeches ? 
Sir Den. Yes. 
Smith. Five pounds fifteen. 
Sir Den. All right. Make it exactly like the last 

you made for me. 
Smith. The styles have altered considerably since 

then. Sir Dennys. 
Sir Den. I don't care. I hate change. I never 

change myself, and I don't intend to change my 

clothes. 
Smith. ( With a twinkle in his eye) I beg your 

pardon, Sir Dennys ? 



38 GENERAL POST 

Sir Den. {Realizing what he has said) To change 
my— er — that is, the style of them. 

Smith. I see. 

Sir Den. And now about this other matter — 

Smith. Excuse me, Sir Dennys, but I really think 
I ought to take fresh measurements — not the 
trousers, perhaps — but certainly the coat and vest. 
It's some time now since we did, and — er — 
{He glances significantly at Sir Dennys' gii^tJi) 

Sir Den. {Following the direction of his glance) 
You don't mean to say that you think ? 

Smith. I'm rather afraid. 

Sir Den. Oh, very well. Get on with it. I sup- 
pose I can talk at the same time. 

Smith. Certainly, Sir Dennys. 

He opens his handbag and takes from it his 
tape measure. 
Sir Den. I understand, Smith, that you are given 

to good works in your off-hours. 
Smith. Good works ? In what way. Sir Dennys ? 

He goes behind Sir Dennys and proceeds to 
measure the length of his coat from U7ider- 
neath the collar to the extremity of the skirt. 

Sir Den. You are one of Miss Prendergast's band 
of — er — whatever they are. 

Smith. {As he enters the measurement in his note- 
book) Thirty, exactly. 

Sir Den. ( Thitiking that Smith refers to the number 
of Miss Frendergasfs helpers) Thirty, eh? . . . 
Well, you can make it twenty-nine for the future. 

Smith. Oh, believe me, that wouldn't suit you, Sir 
Dennys. 

Sir Den. You mean it wouldn't s>mt you ! 

Smith. It doesn't make any difference to me, Sir 
Dennys. I shan't have to wear the coat. 



GENERAL POST 39 

Sir Den. Wear the — ? What the devil d'you 
think you're talking about, Smith ? 

Smith. About the length of your coat, Sir Dennys. 

Sir Den. Length of my coat be hanged ! I do wish 
you'd stop fiddling about behind my back there, 
and attend to what I'm saying to you. 

Smith, who is continuing quite placidly with 
his measurement of Sir Dennys' back — 
this time from the centre of the back to the 
side— jots down a figure in his note-book. 

Smith. {Sotto voce) Seven — a half. {Aloud) 

Yes, Sir Dennys ? 
Sir Den. I was asking you whether you are or 
whether you are not interested in the — er — the 
night club that Miss Prendergast got up in 
Sheffingham. 
Smith. Miss Prendergast started a night club in 

Sheffingham ! You amaze me, Sir Dennys ! 
Sir Den. For boys ! — newsboys ! 

He looks at Smith suspiciously, uncertain 
whether or no he is " having his leg 
pulled:' 

Smith. Oh ! — in the Cherry Street School. 

Sir Den. {Irritably) I don't know where it is ! 

Smith. Yes, I occasionally lend a hand down 
there. . . . Would you mind raising your arms, 
Sir Dennys ? . . . That's sufficient, thank you. 

He proceeds to pass the measure round Sir 
Dennys' chest. 

Sir Den. I take it, then, that at this — er — club, 
you have become acquainted with my daughter. 

Smith. {^Regarding the measurement recorded by the 
tape, and hardly conscious of what Sir Dennys has 
said — with genuine enthusiasm) My word, Sir 



40 GENERAL POST 

Dennys, there's many a younger man would envy 

you that ! 
Sir Den. Are you referring to my daughter, sir ? 
Smith. Good gracious, no ! I meant your chest 

measurement. 
Sir Den. {Mollified — indeed extremely pleased) 

Eh ? . . . Oh — oh — it's pretty good, is it ? 
Smith. Thirty-nine, a half ! I should think it is ! 

Why, you must have an expansion of at least 

forty-three. 
Sir Den. {Much gratified) And a little more. 
Smith. Splendid! . . . Yes, I have had the pleasure 

of meeting Miss Broughton. 
Sir Den. {Brought back to earth with a bump) 

Ah ! . . . Look here, Smith, it's impossible to talk 

with you dancing round me all the time. Can't 

you cut this measuring business short ? 
Smith. Well, I don't suppose we need measure the 

sleeve, Sir Dennys. Your arm's not likely to have 

grown. But I certainly think w^e ought to — er — 
lie waves a hand in the direction of Sir 
Dennys' " lower chest'' 
Sir Den. {Almost unconsciously ujtdoing the lower 

buttofis of his vest) You mean — er ? 

Smith nods. 
Well, come on ! Get it over ! 

The tape is applied and withdrawn. Sir 
Dennys watches Smith's face the while he 
reads the record as anxiously as if he were 
waiting to learn his fate after examination 
by his doctor. 
Smith. {Shaking his head) T't— ft— ft— ft— t't ! 
Sir Den. {Agitatedly) As bad as that ? 

Smith nods. 
Well, what is it ? 



GENERAL POST 41 

Smith. Forty-one, a quarter — ^just over. 

Sir Den. How much more is that than last time? 

Smith. Nearly two inches. 

Sir Den. Two inches ! Good Heavens ! That 
means I must begin those confounded exercises all 
over again! . . . This is one of the most trying 
mornings I've ever known. Everything's oc- 
curred to upset me ! ... Sit down. Smith. Sit 
down. 

Smith. Thank you, Sir Dennys. 

He takes a chair, and Sir Dennys seats him- 
self opposite to him. 

Sir Den. [Distinctly uncomfortable) Now, to return 

to this Prendergast affair — I understand that on 

one or two occasions you have been so kind as to 

see my daughter safely home. 
Smith. I have had that privilege. 
Sir Den. Well — er — Lady Broughton and I are 

extremely obliged to you for your courtesy, but — 

er — well — er 

Smith. I quite understand. Sir Dennys. 

Sir Den. I was going to say that my daughter 

will, unfortunately, have to — er — to — er — give up 

her work here almost immediately. I don't know 

whether she told you that she is going abroad for 

some time. 
Smith. That really isn't necessary^ Sir Dennys. 
Sir Den. Not necessary ? What d'you mean ? 
Smith. I have made arrangements to leave Sheffing- 

ham myself. 
Sir Den. You're surely not suggesting that my 

daughter's departure is in any way connected with 

you? 
Smith. ( Very quietly) Then why have you told me 

about it? 



42 GENERAL POST 

This direct question takes the wind completely 
out of Sir Dennys' sails. He is at a loss 
for a reply. Smith continues : — 
I'm glad that you've broached this subject, Sir 
Dennys. It's been on my mind for some time. 
I'm very glad indeed that you've given me the 
opportunity of mentioning it. 

Sir Den. I forbid you to tell me that you're in love 
with my daughter ! 

Smith. I shouldn't dream of doing so, Sir Dennys. 
Tailors can't afford to fall in love with the 
daughters of their best customers. 

Sir Den. Eh? . . . Now, where have I heard 
that before ? . . . Somebody said it. 

Smith. It's not a very original thought, Sir Dennys. 
It's just sheer common sense. 

Sir Den. {Much 7-elieved) I'm glad to know that 
you take such a right view of it. 

Smith. I can quite appreciate your position in the 
matter. Had I been in your place I should have 
been exceedingly annoyed to learn that my 
daughter had been going about with my tailor. 

Sir Den. Then why on earth did you do it ? 

Smith. Because I lacked the courage of my con- 
victions. Apart from the fact that it would have 
been most ungallant of me to decline to act as 
Miss Broughton's escort, I was naturally flattered 
by her request, and I didn't pause to consider the 
consequences. 

Sir Den. Ah ! 

Smith. You see, Sir Dennys, it would cause you 
annoyance, no doubt, if this story got about — but 
it would spell disaster for me. 

Sir Den. {Amazed) Eh ? 

Smith. I should lose all my custom. I might as 
well shut up shop. Nobody's going to employ 



GENERAL POST 43 

a tailor who's got a reputation for — well, for 

forgetting his place. 
Sir Den. By George ! I — I never thought of that 

side of it. 
Smith. It wouldn't be likely to occur to you. 
Sir Den. And so — er — to avoid temptation you 

arranged to leave Sheffingham ? 
Smith. That's the long and the short of it. 
Sir Den. ( Warmly) Well, I admire you, Smith ! 

Ton my word, I do ! I respect you. But, happily, 

there'll be no necessity for you to go now. 
Smith. I'm afraid I must. 
Sir Den. There's no " must " about it. My 

daughter is going abroad for some time — and 

that solves your difficulty. 
Smith. Not quite, Sir Dennys. You see I have 

made arrangements with my brother to take over 

the control of our London house, and for him to 

take my place here. 
Sir Den. Well, cancel 'em. 
Smith. It's rather too late to do that. He's got 

rid of the house he had in London, and has taken 

one in Sheffingham — and, altogether — well, I 

couldn't possibly ask him to change his plans again. 
Sir Den. But it'll be so deucedly inconvenient for 

me ! — and for many other people. {He adds this as 

an afterthought) We've got used to you. Smith. 

We like you. And, as I've said before, I can't 

stand change. 
Smith. I'm much obliged to you. Sir Dennys — but 

you'll find my brother an excellent man in every 

way. 
Sir Den. Ah, well, if it's got to be it's got to be, I 

suppose. I'm very sorry, but there it is, and — 

I'm sure I wish you luck. 
He holds out his hand to Smith, who shakes it. 



44 GENERAL POST 

Smith. Thank you, Sir Dennys. 

Sir Den. If you'll be guided by me you'll drop all 

that Territorial business when you get to London. 

You'll find it won't do you any good. 
Smith. {Laughing) Well, we shall see. 
Sir Den. You'll have a biscuit and a glass of wine 

before you go. 
Smith. Thank you very much. 
Sir Den. I'll tell Wilson to bring it in to you. 

He turns to go, and then suddenly recollects a 
question he has forgotten to put to Smith. 

Oh, by the way, Smith, who's er — um — er — 

Nietzschmann? 
Smith. {Momentarily nonplussed) Nietzschmann, 

Sir Dennys ? ifie pauses for reflection) Oh, yes, 

I know the man. He's a hairdresser — a German 

— has a little shop somewhere off the High Street. 
Sir Den. {More to himself than to anybody else) Then, 

what on earth could Betty have meant by ? 

Smith. I beg your pardon. Sir Dennys ? 

Sir Den. Oh, nothing, nothing. It doesn't matter. 

ifle proceeds to the door) Well, good-bye to you. 

Smith, and good luck. 
Smith. Good-day, Sir Dennys. Thank you. 

Sir Dennys goes out. A portrait of Betty 
which is upon the mantelshelf catches Smith's 
eye. He takes it down, and gazes upon it 
longingly. A sigh escapes hitn. 

{Addressing the portrait) Oh, why weren't you 
born the daughter of a tradesman ? 

Betty appears at the window. 

Smith stands with his back to the window. 
Having satisfied herself that he is alone in the 
room, Betty whistles softly. 



GENERAL POST 45 

Betty, Fee — fo ! 

Smith makes haste to set the portrait down, and 
turns to greet her. 

Smith. Ah, Miss Broughton ! How are you this 

morning ? 
Betty. {^Disregarding his enquiry) Well ? 
Smith. Quite, thank you ! 
Betty. No, no ; don't make fun of me ! What's he 

said? 
Smith. Your father ? 
Betty. Yes. 

Smith. Oh, lots of things. 
Betty. I mean about us. There's been an awful 

row, you know ! 
Smith. I'm sorry to hear that. 
Betty. Was he very rude to you ? 
Smith. Good gracious, no ! Why should he be ? 
Betty. I don't know. I was thinking of what you 

said to me the other day. 
Smith. What did I say ? 
Betty. That everybody has such perfect manners 

nowadays that the only way people can show that 

they've got blue blood in their veins is by being 

rude to those that they know haven't. 
Smith. That doesn't apply to your father. 
Betty. {A shade indignantly) He's got lots of 

blue blood ! 
Smith. I didn't mean in that sense. Your father is 

always polite. 
Betty. Oh, is he ? You should hear him talking 

to me ! 
Smith. Politeness is a relative term. 
Betty. That's just what it isn't ! 
Smith. {Laughing) You're too quick for me, Miss 

Broughton. 



46 GENERAL POST 

Betty. Didn't he say anything to you, then ? 
Smith. Oh, yes. . . . He told me that you're going 

abroad very soon. 
Betty. {Mightily surprised) Did he, indeed ! 
Smith. {Surprised in his turn) Aren't you? 
Betty. It's the first I've heard of it. 
Smith. Oh, then, p'raps I've said the wrong thing. 
Betty. Not at all. . . . It's always interesting to 

be told what one's going to do ! , . . What did 

you say to that ? 
Smith. I think I said — er — " That's rather funny ! " 
Betty. / don't see anything funny in it ! Why is 

it funny ? 
Smith. Because I'm going to leave Sheffingham, too. 
Betty. You ! . . . Why ? 
Smith. We're making some changes in our staff. 

I'm going to take over the management of our 

London house. 
Betty. You never told me anything about it on 

Wednesday. 
Smith. I didn't think it would interest you. 
Betty. That isn't true ! 

Smith. {Uncomfortably) Believe me 

Betty. Neither is the reason that you've given me 

for going to London. 

Smith. Miss Broughton, I 

Betty. You're leaving Sheffingham because of 

me ! 

Smith. But 

Betty. It's not a bit of good denying it. It is so, 

isn't it ? 
Smith. Please don't let's discuss it. It places me 

in such an awkward position. 
Betty. My people are going to hound you out of 

your own town ! 
Smith. No ! No ! 



GENERAL POST 47 

Betty. They're trying to ! But I'm not going to 

let that happen, unless^ 

Smith. ( Unable to resist his curiosity) Yes ? 
Betty. Unless you take me with you ! 

A little groan escat>es Smith's lips. 

Betty, having made her confession, is overcome 
by a sense of modesty outraged, and hangs 
her head. There is a considerable pause. 

Smith. Miss Broughton, I — I beg your pardon. I 

never ought to have let you say that. 
Betty. You couldn't have stopped me. 
Smith. Yes, I could. 
Betty. How ? 
Smith. By being absolutely frank with you. . . . 

That's what I've got to be now. 
Betty. I don't understand. 
Smith. I'll try to explain. . . . Far from wanting 

to hound me out of the town, as you put it, your 

father did his utmost to persuade me to remain. 
Betty. Father did ? 
Smith. Yes. I must tell you that in fairness to 

him. But it was too late to change my plans. 

Besides — {Ke hesitates) 
Betty. Yes ? 
Smith. I couldn't have remained in the town if 

you'd left it, and I daren't have remained if you'd 

stayed. 
Betty. Daren't . . . Why not .? 
Smith. Because I should have lived in constant fear 

of — what has just happened. 
Betty. (^Painfully) You mean — you don't love 

me? 
Smith. {Genuinely distressed) Please ! Please ! I 

mustn't answer that question. 
Betty. I can't see any other explanation. 



48 GENERAL POST 

Smith. We could never have been married — you 

and I. It would have meant misery for you and 

ruin for me. 
Betty. {Bitterly) Oh, of course, if I should have 

ruined you ! 

Smith. Oh, don't misunderstand me ! The man 

who means to be successful in trade must have 

only one motto : 

"Lord, keep us in our proper stations, 
And bless the Squire and his relations ! " 

Once he forgets that — well, the squire and his 
relations soon forget him ! 

Betty. You needn't be brutal ! 

Smith. I've got to be brutal ! I've got to make you 
understand ! 

Betty. But surely I'm the best judge of whether 1 
should have been miserable or not ? 

Smith. No, you're not ! You've only seen me with 
my Sunday clothes and my party manners on. 
You've never thought of me as Smith the tailor, 
but as Mister Smith, the dabbler in philosophy — 
Heaven help me ! You belong to one class, I to 
another — and the gulf between us couldn't be 
much greater if I were a Chinee ! We have a 
totally separate code of traditions, of customs, and 
of habits of life. I don't mean to say that I eat 
peas with my knife or drink out of my saucer — 
but I do lots of things that would jar upon you 
just as badly. You wouldn't understand why I 
did them, and I shouldn't understand why you 
objected to my doing them. And the result would 
be — {Re shrugs his shoulders eloquently) How 
would you feel, for instance, when you saw me like 
this } — as you'd have to every day. 

He goes over to his handbag and takes out of it 
a handful of pins ^ a piece of chalky and a 



GENERAL POST 49 

tape measure. The measu7'e he hangs about 
his neck^ the chalk he places behind his ear^ 
and the pins he sticks into the lapel of his uni- 
form. He proceeds to address an imaginary 
customer entering his shop : — 

Smith. Ah, good morning, Mr Jones . . . Nice 
morning, isn't it ? . . . Yes, your suit's quite 
ready to be fitted . , . Will you step this way ? 
. . . Ah, that's a beautiful back — couldn't be 
better — but I think it would be as well if we let it 
out a trifle over the shoulders, {fie takes the chalk 
from behind his ear, and makes some imaginary 
ma?-ks in the air) And now for the sleeves — are 
they quite comfortable ? 

Betty. ( Very near to tears) Oh, don't ! Don't ! 

Smith. Why not ? 

Betty. You're making yourself so horribly common ! 

Smith. I am common ! 

Betty. You're not ! You're doing this just to— 
to put me off ! And, anyhow, I don't care if you 
are. If there is any risk I'll take it — for I love 
you, I love you, I love you ! 

She goes up to him ivith outstretched arms. 

Smith wavers. 

Her arms a?'e very nearly about his neCk when 

the latch of the door clicks, heraldifig the 

advent of a third person. 
Betty looks startled and alarmed. Her breath 

comes quickly. Hurriedly she breaks into 

speech. 
Wilson enters, carry i?ig a tray upojz zvhich are 

a decanter of sherry aitd a ivine-glass, a dish 

of biscuits and a plate. 

Betty. I'd like the habit to fit well in at the waist 
Mr Smith, and to be fairly full in the skirt. 

4 



50 GENERAL POST 

Smith. {Quite gravely) Certainly, Miss. It shall 

have my personal attention. 
Betty. What is it, Wilson ? 
Wilson. Beg pardon, Miss, but Sir Dennys told 

me to bring these in for the — er — for Mr Smith. 

He goes out. 

There is a cofisiderable and uncomfortable pause. 
It is clear to the audience that Smith is sorely 
hurt, but he takes great care that this shall not 
be evident to Betty. She avoids meeting his 
eye. Smith goes over to the table upon which 
Wilson has placed the tray., and pours out a 
glass of sherry. Then he speaks quite lightly. 

Smith. I'm really very much obliged to Wilson. 
Betty. {In a voice hardly above a ivhisper) Why ? 
Smith. He has proved my point for me so much 
more neatly than ever I could have done ! 

The Curtain Falls. 



ACT II 

The Scene is the same as that of the previous Act, and 
save in a few minor details — such, for instance, as 
the re-coverifig of the chairs with new cretonnes — 
the passage of four years has brought little altera- 
tion to the morning-roo?n of Grange Court. The 
month is February, and the bowls and vases of 
summer flowers that decorated the room in the 
First Act have given place to pots of hyacinths 
and daffodils, and to vases offreesia and mimosa. 
Afire of logs is burning brightly on the hearth. 

As with the room, so also with those who are accustomed 
to occupy it. With the exceptio?i of Betty, they 
remain essentially the same — in character and in 
appearance — as tJuy were four years ago. The 
progress of eveftts has necessitated a shifting of 
their view-point here and there, but that is all. 
In the case of Sir Dennys, it has compelled a 
complete reversal of many of his pet convictions, 
but the process has been accomplished without 
vexation by the simple expedient of accepting 
things as they are and of refusing to acknowledge 
that he was ever of a contrary opinion. 

It is in Betty, however, that the most notable change 
is apparent. In four years — three of which she 
has spent in Germany — she has developed from a 
love-sick and rebellious girl into the semblance of 
a cynical and flippant woman, possessed of little 
affection and of no ideals. This is, in point of 
fact, a pose ; but it is well-sustained and is suc- 

51 



52 GENERAL POST 

cessful in deceiving most people, Betty herself 
included. When, upon the advice of Alec, Betty 
was ^^ packed off" to Germany, she departed a 
prey to various emotions, seemingly diverse but all 
centring about Smith. The manner of her parting 
from hi??i and his rejection of her advances had 
filled her with a spirit of revolt agaifist him and 
against herself Whilst unwilling and unable to 
abate a jot of her affection for hi^n, she had been 
consu7ned by a passionate desire to retaliate for the 
^^humiliation'*' that he had put upon her. She 
had wanted to " hit back " — to hurt him. She had 
wanted to bring him to his knees before her, and 
then, graciously, to pardon him. This had been 
made impossible, and so, a stranger in a strange 
land, deprived of all opportunity of achieving her 
hearfs desire, she had brooded upon her " troubles " 
until she had lost all sense of proportion. It had 
been easy to persuade herself that Smith despised 
her, and the thought that she had made herself 
" cheap " in the sight of a man so much her social 
inferior as her father s tailor had tormented her 
perpetually. She had striven hard to bri?ig her- 
self to hate all recollectiofi of the man, and, failing, 
had despised herself for her inability to free herself 
from the trammels of a passion which {she had 
brought herself to believe) was utterly degrading. 
In order to banish remembrance from her mind, 
she had flung Jierself with a feverish zest, into 
participation in a7iy amusement that offered. The 
ambitiofts that once obsessed her had beeji flung 
aside — their pursuit could serve only to remind her 
of hifn. And so, gradually, there had grown up 
the artificial woman that conceals the real Betty 
at the opening of the Second Act. Her affection 
for, and her animosity agai?ist Smith have lost 



GENERAL POST 53 

some part of their first fierce intensify, hut they 
remaifi within her, and await only opportunity to 
revive their a?'dour. 

When the curtain rises upon the Second Act, Sir Dennys 
is alone upon the stage. He is atti?-ed in the 
uniform of a private of the National Reserve, a?id 
ivears the scarlet brassard, stamped with the royal 
i?iitials, " 6^ . R'' Propped up on the fnantel- 
piece before him is the w,aroon-covered manual upo?t 
^^ Infantry Training — 19 14," a7id,with the aid of 
a golf club in lieu of a rifle, he is endeavouring 
to master the intricacies of the several motions 
requisite in ^^ presenting arms." 

Lady Broughton enters, wearing heavy furs. She is 
going out in the car. 

Betty follows her into the room. 



Lady B. Oh ! So your uniform's come. 

Betty. My word ! Now we're the real thing, and 

no mistake ! Turn round, Father, and let's have 

a look at you. 
Sir Den. I haven't got quite used to it yet. I'm 

just trying to break it in. 'S matter o' fact, I'm 

just a bit nervous about it. It feels — well, I'm 

not at all sure what'U happen when I try to touch 

my toes ! 
Lady B. Touch your toes ! What d'you want to 

touch your toes for ? 
Sir Den. I don't, but I have to ! It's part of the 

drill, you know — Swedish exercises, and that sort 

o' thing. 
Betty. I know. I've heard 'em at it. {She mimics 

the voice and manner of a drill sergeant) " On the 

commawnd one, plice the 'ands on the 'ips ! " 

Poor old Father ! 



54 GENERAL POST 

Lady B. {Scandalized) \o\i don't mean to tell 
me that you — you actually make the endeavour to 
touch your toes in public ! 

Sir Den. {None too comfortable) Um — er — yes. 

Lady B. How extremely undignified ! 

Sir Den. My dear Marian, if it is necessary for me 
to lose my dignity in the service of my country, I 
am proud to do so. 

Betty. {Flippantly) To-day's great thought ! 

Lady B. I fail to see how you will benefit your 
country by making yourself ridiculous. Your 
attempts to touch your toes aren't going to drive 
the Germans out of France. 

Sir Den. {A shade warmly) Nobody ever ex- 
pected that they were ! 

Betty. Now, now, Father ! No naughty temper ! 

Sir Den. Your mother is taking a very wrong view 
of the position. As a private in the National 
Reserve, I have to conform to the rules and 
regulations laid down for the training of the forces 
in general. 

Lady B. That's nonsense, Dennys ! You're not an 
ordinary private. You know perfectly well that 
nobody would say a word to you if you refused to 
do these preposterous things. 

Sir Den. I've got to set the rest of the corps a 
good example. I should be failing most grossly 
in my duty if I were to take advantage of my 
social position in order to avoid certain — er — 
unpleasant tasks. 

Betty. {Mockingly) Hear ! Hear ! 

Lady B. All the same, I don't see any sense in 
trying to make a man of your age and your figure 
touch his toes. It's not only undignified, it's 
dangerous. You might very easily injure your 
back for life. 



GENERAL POST 55 

Betty. And you'll certainly burst the buttons off 
your tunic ! 

Sir Den. Quiet, you minx ! . . . I will not be 
talked to as though I were a crocketty old man ! 
The exercises are doing me all the good in the 
world. I've lost several pounds since I began 
'em ; and I never felt fitter in my life. 

Lady B. Yes, dear, but — well, don't overdo it. 
That's all I'm anxious about. You can't afford 
to play pranks with yourself at your age, you 
know. 

Betty. (JV/io has caught sight suddenly of Sir 
Dennys' ''rifle'') Hello! What's the golf club 
doing here ? I thought all that sort of thing had 
been put away for the duration of the war. ( With 
mock gravity) Have you been backsliding, 
Father? 

Sir Den. Certainly not ! That's my rifle. I've 
just been practising the " Present ! " It's a most 
deucedly tricky movement — and Fm particularly 
anxious to have it right this afternoon, 

Betty. Will the sergeant be very rude to you if 
you don't ? 

Sir Den. I've no doubt he would be if — er — well, 
you see, it's a very difficult position for him, poor 
chap. Seeing that I am — well, who I am — he 
can't very well be as — er — frank with me as he 
would be with the ordinary recruit. 

Lady B. Who is the sergeant ? Do I know him? 

Sir Den. Yes. It's young Johnson — son of old 
Mrs Johnson at the lodge. 

Betty. Our lodge ? 

Sir Dennys nods. 

Lady B. You don't mean the man who helps in 
the stables ? 



56 GENERAL POST 

Sir Den. Yes. He's a good feller — capital soldier 

— used to be a corporal in the Guards. 
Lady B. And you have to do what he tells you? 

Again Sir Dennys nods. 

Well, I never heard such a thing ! 
Betty. {Laughing in high delight) I think it's 

lovely ! 
Lady B. I hope he won't take advantage of it. 
Betty. He's a silly fellow if he doesn't. 
Sir Den. {Startled) Eh? 
Betty. If I were in his place, I should draw my 

wages regularly, and never do another stroke of 

work ! 
Sir Den. In which case, my dear, you wouldn't 

draw your wages. You'd get the sack. 
Betty. Oh no, I shouldn't. You daren't sack me ! 

— you know you daren't ! Think of the time I 

should give you on parade afterwards if you did ! 
Sir Den. {Genuinely perturbed) Sh, sh, my dear! 

You mustn't say that sort of thing even in fun. 

If one of the servants happened to overhear you, 

they might take it quite seriously, and that would 

make things extremely awkward — impossible, in 

fact! 
Lady B. {Emphatically) Quite impossible ! . . . 

Really, it's very difficult to know where one stands 

nowadays. Everything seems turned topsy-turvy. 

It's worse than Alice through the looking-glass. 
Betty. It's like one of our old nursery games on a 

big scale. The Kaiser's shouted "General Post ! " 

— and we've all changed places. 
Sir Den. It's merely a question of the trained man 

and the untrained. Naturally, the trained man has 

the pull. 
Lady B. But what's going to happen afterwards? 



GENERAL POST 57 

What's going to happen when the war's over? 
Will things go back to what they used to be ? 
Sir Den. My dear, that's more than I can tell you. 
But they'll shake down all right. It's a way things 
have. 

The distant tinkle of a bell arrests his attention. 
He cocks his head and listens. 

That the telephone ? 

They all keep silence for a moment. The bell 
continues to ring. 

Betty. Sounds like a trunk-call. 

Lady B. It may be Alec. 

Betty. Shall I go and see ? 

Lady B. I wish you would, dear. It it is Alec, I'll 

come. 
Betty. All right. 

She goes out. 

Sir Den. Have you heard from the boy ? 

Lady B. Not since the telegram last week that you 
saw. 

Sir Den. Then you don't know yet what regiment 
he's in ? 

Lady B. No. He just said he'd been gazetted — 
and that was all. I couldn't find any mention of 
it in the paper. I've been expecting a letter from 
him every day. 

Sir Den. He won't have any time to waste in 
writing letters. There's no playing at soldiering 
nowadays, you know. The lads are kept hard at 
it from the moment they join. If we're going to 
teach the Germans a lesson, we've got to put our 
backs into it. 

Lady B. Still, dear, surely he could have found time 
to send a post-card ? 



58 GENERAL POST 

Sir Den. Perhaps, perhaps ; but — er — we must 
make allowances. 

Lady B. A mother's used to doing that ! 

Sir Den. And so's a father, by Jove ! Which re- 
minds me that I must send the young rascal a 
cheque. 

He seats himself at the writing-desk, and pro- 
ceeds to suit the action to the word. 

Lady B. You might draw one for Betty at the same 
time. ... I wonder what she's doing. It can't 
have been Alec ringing up or she'd have come and 
told us. 

Sir Den. My word, Marian, how that girl has 
altered. 

Lady B. Betty ? 

Sir Den. Yes. . . . You know, my dear, if it didn't 
sound so abominably disloyal, I should say that 
you and I ought to be very grateful to the 
Germans ! 

Lady B. You mean for the change they've made in 
her. 

Sir Den. Yes. 

Lady B. ( With a half sigh) She certainly has 
changed. 

Sir Den. Why do you say it like that ? Don't you 
think that she's improved ? 

Lady B. In some ways. 

Sir Den. In every way ! . . . There's nothing of 
the Socialist about Betty now. You wouldn't find 
her walking arm-in-arm with a tailor these days. 

Lady B. She's older than she was. 

Sir Den. People don't necessarily grow wiser as 
they grow older. No ; it's something else. Her 
three years in Germany have made a different girl 
of her. She's improved out of all knowledge. 



GENERAL POST 59 

Lady B. Yes, I suppose she has improved ; but I'm 
not a bit happy about her. 

Sir Den. Not happy about her ? Why ? 

Lady B. She's not happy herself. 

Sir Den. What on earth makes you say that ? 

Lady B. Lots of little things. I'm sure of it. 

Sir Den. But she's the life and soul of every place 
she goes to ! You should have seen her at the 
Veritys' the other night. She kept the whole table 
in an uproar. Most amusing the things she said. 

Lady B. Oh, she can be amusing enough when 
there are people about. But have you ever 
watched her when she's not known that you've 
been looking at her? 

Sir Den. I don't know that I have. Why ? 

Lady B. It's not the face of a happy woman that 
she shows then. 

Sir Den. On the occasions that you refer to, she's 
probably been tired. 

Lady B. She has been — tired of pretending. 

Sir Den. Pretending ? Pretending what ? 

Lady B. That she's happy. She isn't, Dennys. At 
the back of Betty's mind there's always something 
that — that's perpetually tormenting her. I don't 
know what it is ; but it's there. I'm sure of it. 

Sir Den. I'm bound to say I haven't noticed it. 

Lady B. But, then, you're not a very observant 
person, are you ? 

Sir Den. {None too well pleased) I don't know — 
I 

Lady B. Besides, dear, it's sufficient for you that 
she makes you laugh. It's probably never struck 
you that the things she makes most fun of are the 
things that a girl of her age ought to hold dear. 

Sir Den. She sees the humorous side of everything. 
Can't help it. Takes after me. 



6o GENERAL POST 

Lady B. You're not cynical, and you're not bitter. 

Betty's both. That's what makes me so worried 

about her. She seems to have no heart. 
Sir Den. You're disturbing me very much. I — I'd 

no idea that — er — what d'you think's the matter 

with her ? 
Lady B. I don't know, and it's very difficult to find 

out, because — well, you see, she won't confide in 

me. But I've often wondered if she ever got over 

that afi'air with 

Sir Den. With whom ? 

Lady B. With that man in Sheffingham. 

Sir Den. Sheffingham ? You^ — you don't mean 

Smith? 
Lady B. Yes. 
Sir Den. But that was years ago ! — and — oh, I'm 

sure you're mistaken. So far as I know, she's 

never mentioned it from that moment to this. 
Lady B. That's one of the very reasons that I'm so 

afraid. 
Sir Den. But she was little more than a child 

then. She 

Lady B. She was just at an age when that sort of 

thing makes its most vivid impression. . . . We 

acted for the best, Dennys, I know. But I'm not 

at all sure that we acted wisely. 

Betty returns. 

Sir Dennys turns to her^ promptly affecting 
his most cheery manner — the better to conceal 
his disquietude — and rather over-doing it. 

Sir Den. Ah ! So it wasn't Alec, eh ? 

Betty. Yes, it was. 

Lady B. Then why didn't you come and tell me, 

dear? He hasn't rung off, has he? 
Betty. Yes. 



GENERAL POST 6i 

Lady B. Oh ! 

Betty. But he'll be here in a minute. 

Sir Den. Here? . . . Where was he ringing up 

from, then? 
Betty. From Occlesham. 
Lady B. Only three miles away ? 
Betty. Yes. He tried to get through before, but 

couldn't. He's got two or three days' leave, so he's 

come down in the car. He's got somebody with 

him — his CO. I think he said. 
Lady B. Now, isn't that vexing? I shall be out 

when they arrive. 
Sir Den. Where're you off to ? 
Lady B. Committee-meeting — housing of refugees. 
Sir Den. Can't you keep 'em waiting for a minute 

or two ? 
Lady B. {Glancing at the watch on her wrist) I 

shall be late as it is — and they can't do anything 

without me because I've got all the particulars. 

No, I simply must go. 

Wilson enters. 

Wilson. The car is at the door, m'lady. 
Lady B. Oh . . . {She turns to Betty) Well, 
give Alec my love, dear, and tell him how sorry I 
am not to be at home when he arrives. ... Is his 
Colonel going to stay ? 
Betty. I don't know — he didn't say. 
Lady B. Well, find out, dear, and make the necessary 
arrangements if he is. I'll get back as soon as ever 
I can. 

She goes out. 
There is a slight pause during tvhich Sir 
Dennys casts about in his mind for the best 
way in which to open the subject he desires to dis- 
cuss with his daughter. Eventually he says : — 



62 GENERAL POST 

Sir Den. Is your mother quite well? 

Betty. So far as I know. Why ? 

Sir Den. Oh, I don't know. She — she seemed a 

little worried and depressed. 
Betty. I think she's worried about Alec. She 

doesn't like the idea of him going to the Front. 
Sir Den. Ah ! . . . Talking about going to the 

Front, have you ever heard what became of that 

fellow — er — Smith ? 

Betty does not 7'eply immediately. She looks 
at her father narrowly^ i7i the ejideavour to 
discern how much of guile there is concealed 
in his question. Eventually she answers 
him quietly : — 
Betty. You mean the man who used to be a tailor 

in Sheffingham? — the man I made such a fool of 

myself over ? 
Sir Den. Well— er — if you like to put it that way, 

my dear. He used to be quite a big pot in the 

Territorials here, if I remember rightly. I won- 
dered if you knew what he was doing. 
Betty. I've no idea. How should I ? 
Sir Den. I don't know. I thought you might have 

heard in a roundabout way. 
Betty. I'm afraid I've not been sufficiently interested 

to inquire. 
Sir Den. ( With ponderous jocularity) There was 

a time ! 

Betty. What are you driving at, Father ? Has 

Mr Smith come back to Sheffingham ? 
Sir Den. Not so far as I'm aware. I only wish he 

had done. His brother's not a patch on him. 

This tunic's a positive disgrace. Look at it ! I've 

just telephoned for him to come and look at it. 

Edward Smith would never have allowed a thing 

like that to leave his workshop. 



GENERAL POST 63 

Betty. {Meditatively) H'm. . . . You know, I 
should love to meet Mr Smith again. I should 
love to see what it is in him that made me make 
such a hopeless little idiot of myself. 

Sir Dennys grunts, Betty continues : — 

I was dreadfully in love with him, you know. You 

none of you believed it, but I was. I wonder if I 

should fall in love with him again. 
Sir Den. {Fervently) Heaven forbid 1 . . ♦ You're 

not — er — not feeling inclined that way, I hope. 
Betty. {Laughing) No. I — I'm quite heart-whole 

at the moment. 
Sir Den. {Incautiously triuinphani) I felt sure I 

was right ! 
Betty. Right? . . . Look here, Father, have you 

been discussing me with somebody ? 
Sir Den. {A shade uncomfortably) No, my dear, 

no ! . . . The — er — the subject just happened to 

crop up in conversation with your mother. She's 

got an idea into her head that — that you're not 

happy. 
Betty. { Unconvincingly) That's nonsense ! I — 

I'm perfectly happy. 
Sir Den. Of course ! Of course ! 

The raucous scream of a motor-horn fitted to 
the exhaust of a car penetrates into the room. 

Hullo ! That sounds like Alec ! 
Betty. It is. I should know that horrible old 

screecher of his anywhere. 
Sir Den. Well, I'd better be off and change. I 

don't want to be caught like this. 
Betty. Why not ? 
Sir Den. ■ I should have to stand at attention the 

whole time — presence of my superior officer. And 

I'm handed it I'm going to salute my own son I 



64 GENERAL POST 

Betty. Would you have to ? 

Sir Den. Of course I should. 

Betty. {Laughing) That's rather nice ! 

Alec's voice is heard outside in conversation 
with Wilson, inquiring the ivhereahouts of 
^'' everybody P 

{Gleefully) You're too late now ! You're caught ! 
Sir Den. Confound ! 

Alec bursts cheerily into the room. He 

wears the khaki uniform of a 2nd Lieutena?it. 

He is the picture of good healthy bronzed and 

upright^ and has grown a little moustache. 

Alec. Hello ! {He kisses his sister) How are you, 

old girl? Fit? 
Betty. Quite. 

Alec. That's right. . . . And you, Pater ? 
Sir Den. First-class, my boy, thanks. {They shake 

hands) Very pleased to see you. 
Alec. {Eyiitg his father's uniform) Hullo ! 

What's this mean ? 
Sir Den. I've joined the Volunteers. Tried to set 

an example to the slackers round here. We've far 

too many of 'em. 
Alec. Well done, Pater ! . . . A private, eh ? 
Sir Den. You needn't think I'm going to salute 

you ! 
Alec. You're not required to salute without your 

cap ! 
Sir Den. Shouldn't do it even if I had it on ! 
Alec. Then I should have to report you to your 

commandant, or whatever you call him — and you'd 

be severely reprimanded ! 
Sir Den. Should I ? 
Alec. A second offence would mean two or three 

days' "C.B." 



GENERAL POST 65 

Betty. C.P.? What's that? — Corporal punish- 
ment? 

Alec. {Laughing) No ! '' CB^ ! — Confined to 
barracks ! 

Sir Den. Haven't got any barracks ! 

Alec. Then we should have to lock you up in your 
bedroom ; that's all ! . . . Where's the Mater ? 

Betty. She's had to go out to some meeting. 
Awfully sorry not to be here when you arrived. 
But she left her love, and said she'd get back as 
soon as she could. 

Alec. Good ! 

Sir Den. And now, look here, young man ! Are 
you aware that you've never told us what your 
regiment is ? 

Alec. Haven't I? 

Betty. The badge looks like the Fusiliers. 

Alec. That's right. It is — 38th County of London. 
They're a fine lot. 

Sir Den. Territorials ? 

Alec. Yes. 

Sir Den. Ah ! I'm glad you've joined a Terri- 
torial regiment. Wonderful the way those chaps 
have acquitted themselves at the front ! Wonder- 
ful ! It's been very gratifying to those of us 
who've always believed in 'em to find our faith so 
— er — so amply justified. 

Alec's lips twitch with amusement. He looks 
queer ly at his sister. 
You've a nice set of officers, eh ? 

Alec. Splendid fellows. The Colonel's a fine chap, 
and a wonderful soldier. 

Betty. Where is he? I thought you said he was 
coming down with you ? 

Alec. So he has done. I left him in the drive, 
talking to old Dr Cundall. 

5 



66 GENERAL POST 

Sir Den. He knows Cundall, eh ? 

Alec. Yes. As a matter of fact, he knows several 

people down here. 
Sir Den. Oh. . . . Have I ever met him ? 
Alec. I think so. 
Sir Den. What's his name ? 
Alec. Smith. 

Betty starts at the sound of the name, and 
looks intently at her brother. 

Sir Den. Smith? Smith? I don't seem to re- 
member meeting any Colonel Smith. 

Betty. {With an excitement she cannot restrain) 
Alec, it isn't ? 

Sir Den. Who? 

Betty. {Seeing from her brother^ s expression that it 
is) Well, how extraordinary ! 

The humour of the situation overcomes her. 
She cannot ref-ain from laughing. 

Really, it's too funny ! It's funnier than you and 
the stableman, Father ! 

Sir Den. What on earth d'you mean. I don't 
understand. What's all this mystery about ? 

Betty. Don't you see ? . . . Why, it's the man 
we've just been talking about ! — the man who used 
to be your tailor ! 

Sir Den. {Incredulous., but horrified by the bare sug- 
gestion) What ! Nonsense ! 

Follows a pause of consternation. Alec's 
silence gives consent to Betty's statement. 
Still hopi^ig against hope. Sir Dennys con- 
tinues apprehensively : — 

You — you don't mean to tell me that that's so, Alec? 
Alec. {On the defensive immediately) I believe he 
was something of the sort at one time, but I really 
can't see 



GENERAL POST 67 

Sir Den. What? 

Alec. What difference that makes. 

Sir Den. {Astounded) You can't see? — What's 
happened to you, my boy ? I should have thought 
that you'd have been the very first to see that the 
whole thing's impossible ! 

Betty. {Intensely amused — mockingly') A soldier 
has no such word in his dictionary ! 

Sir Den. There's only one thing for it. You must 
exchange at once ! 

Alec. Exchange ? . . . My dear Father ! Really ! 

Sir Den. It's a recognized thing in the army. 

Alec. Not at a time like this. Besides, it's a jolly 
fine regiment, and I'm proud to belong to it. 

Sir Den. There are plenty of other regiments just 
as fine without the disadvantage of having a tailor 
for their Colonel. 

Alec. Why should that be a disadvantage ? 

Sir Den. You wouldn't call it an advantage, would 
you? Hang it all, I should have thought you'd 
have felt a certain diffidence in saluting a man 
and calling him "Sir" one minute, and the next 
going into his shop and cursing him for having 
cut your breeches badly ! 

Betty. {Laughing delightedly) What a delicious idea ! 
Sir Den. It wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't 
been one's own tailor. As it is, it'll be all 
over the place in five minutes, and — dash it !- — 
one doesn't like to be made to feel a fool ! 
Alec. Why should you feel a fool ? I should have 
thought that you'd have been the last person, Pater, 
to allow yourself to be influenced by local gossip. 
Sir Den. So I am ! But, when one occupies a 
certain position in a place, one's bound to con- 
sider these things. Besides, it's more of your 
mother that I vva^ thinking. You know how 
women look upon these matters, and 



68 GENERAL POST 

Betty. Oh, you Adam, Father ! 

Sir Den. I'm dashed if I understand the way the 
War Office is going to work. Why on earth do 
they want to make a man Hke Smith a Colonel ? 

Alec. Because he's the best man for the job. 
Because he knows his soldiering backwards — as 
you, and I, and lots of others like us ought to 
have done, and would have done if we hadn't 
been such fools ! We scoffed at the idea of war 
with Germany. He saw it coming, and, whilst we 
slacked, he worked, worked hard to be ready 
for the day when it came. We laughed at the 
Territorials. We don't laugh now ! If it hadn't 
been for them, where should we be to-day ? — jolly 
well in the soup ! 

Sir Den. Yes, yes, my boy ! I admit all that — 
but still, a tailor ! 

Alec. What's that to do with it, Father ? — so long as 
he knows how to command a regiment ? Family- 
trees are played out. The man who's top-dog to-day 
is the man who can do things. Nothing else counts. 

Sir Den. All the same, I don't think you need 
have brought him down here ! 

Alec. He had to come down on business. 

Sir Den. But why bring him to the house ? You 
don't seem to realize that by doing so you place 
both him and us in a very false position. 

Alec. In what way ? 

Sir Den. Well — dash it ! — you can't expect your 
mother and your sister to meet him on terms of 
equality. 

Alec. My dear Father ! You're a private ; I'm a 
subaltern. It seems to me the question is, will he 
consent to meet us on terms of equaHty. 

Sir Den. 'Pon my word, I ! 

Betty. General Post ! . . . Come on. Father, you 
must play the game ! 

r 



GENERAL POST 69 

Sir Den. Well, it's all very upsetting ! It's most 
upsetting ! His brother's coming here this morn- 
ing to see about altering my uniform. They'll 
meet. Then what're we going to do? Ask him 
to bring his tape-measure into lunch ? . . . Upon 
my word, it's — well, I don't know what your 
mother'U have to say, I don't indeed ! 
Betty. Let's hope she sees the funny side of it. 

She moves over to the windozv and looks out. 
Sir Den. {Grimly) H'm ! I shouldn't pin my 

hopes on that, Betty, if I were you. 
Betty. Here is Mister — I mean the Colonel ! — 

coming up the drive. 
Sir Den. Oh, well, in for a penny, in for a pound, 
I suppose. . . . What do I do, Alec? Come to 
attention ? 
Alec. No, just behave as you would do ordinarily. 
Sir Den. No, no, no ! I like to do things properly. 
Now, how's that? 

He comes to attention after the style approved 
by the drill sergeant. 
Alec. It's all right — but don't make him feel un- 
comfortable, Pater. 
Wilson throws the door open and announces : — 
Wilson. Colonel Smith. 

Edward Smith enters. He is in khaki— field- 
service — uniform and ca7'ries the badge of his 
rank upon his sleeve. Alec goes forward to 
greet him. 
Alec. Ah, there you are, sir. Come in. 
Smith. Awfully sorry to have been so long, Brough- 
ton, but the old doctor's full of some scheme he's 
got for ending the war in a week, and — er — 
{lie catches sight of Betty) Oh, pardon me, 

I didn't see that 

Alec. I think you know my sister, don't you ? 



70 GENERAL POST 

Smith. (A little awktvardly) Why — yes-— I — 
{He goes up to her with outstretched hand) How 
do you do, Miss Broughton ? It's very nice to see 
you again after all these years. 

Betty. It's very charming of you to say so — Colonel ! 

She lays an amused stress upon his title. 

Alec. And — er — my father ? 

Smith. {Turning to greet him) Ah, Sir Denny s ! 

{He observes his ujtiform — to Alec) Why, you 

never told me, Broughton, that your father had 

joined the forces, too ! 
Alec. I didn't know anything at all about it until 

just now. 
Smith. Well, I think it's fine of you. Sir Dennys. 
Sir Den. I'm only a Tommy, you know, Smith — 

er — that is — er — sir ! 
Smith. That makes it all the finer. By Jove, if the 

sight of you in khaki doesn't shame the shirkers 

into action, nothing will ! 
Sir Den. It isn't exactly khaki, you know. Smith 

— dash it all ! Sir, I mean ! — I'm only a 

Volunteer. 
Smith. Why "only," Sir Dennys? You've signified 

your willingness to fight if your country needs you. 

You can't do more. 
Sir Den. No, no ! I wish to goodness I could. 
Betty. Poor father! You do look so uncomfortable, 

standing as if you'd swallowed the poker. {She 

turns to Smith) Please tell him to stand at ease, 

Colonel. 
Smith. {Laughing) Do you allow them to chaff 

you like that, Sir Dennys ? 
Sir Den. Of course, it's not my place to make 

suggestions to you, sir, but — oughtn't you to call 

me Private Broughton. 
Smith. {Still laughing — though now a triiie uncom- 



GENERAL POST 71 

fortably) It's too bad of you to make fun of me, 
Sir Dennys. 

Sir Den. No, no, I'm quite serious. I mean we're 
both in uniform, and — er — I like to do these things 
properly, you know. 

Smith. Oh, we keep formalities for the parade- 
ground nowadays. We've got to. The new army's 
conducted on strictly democratic principles. Why, 
any day of the week, you may see Tommies dining 
at the Carlton whilst their officers feed at — er 

Betty. {Mischievously) Lockharts ? 

Smith. {Laughing) Well, not quite ! One can 
live in a Palace in London, you know, for six 
shillings a day, inclusive — and no tips ! 

Betty. That's what Alec calls being Strand-ed in 
town ! 

Smith makes a wry face. 

Smith. I should make him put half-a-crown in the 
poor box for that ! 

Alec. It is pretty bad, isn't it ? . . . But, as you 
were saying, sir, it is most awfully comic the way 
the war's turned things topsy-turvy. One finds 
peers in the ranks, and — er 

Smith. {Smiling) And tailors in command, eh ? 

Alec. ( Uncomfortably) Oh I didn't mean — er- 



Smith. I know you didn't. But it's none the less a fact. 

Sir Den. Exactly ! Exactly ! — And what's the ex- 
planation of it ? Why, merely that the men who 
were long-sighted enough to foresee this terrible 
calamity that has come upon us, and patriotic 
enough to prepare themselves to cope with it, are 
reaping their reward, x^nd richly they deserve it ! 
In the light of what has happened, it's hardly 
possible to credit that there should have been 
people who did their utmost to discourage the Terri- 
torial movement — worse stiil, people who laughed 
at It ! Those people must be feeling pretty foolish 



72 GENERAL POST 

now ! Where should we have been but for the 
Territorials, I should like to know ? 

Betty. {Rushing gallantly, if flippantly, to the rescue 
^ Smith a^id Alec, neither of whom dare speak for 
fear of revealing the amusement which Sir Dennys' 
volte face affords them) Mere bits of toast in the 
consomme ! . . . That's the conclusion that you 
came to, wasn't it, Alec ? 

Sir Den. Eh ? 

Betty. You're rather a lamb, Father, aren't you ? 

Sir Den. What on earth d'you mean ? — lamb ! Of 
all the silly phrases, that's the silliest ! Do I re- 
semble a lamb in the very least ? Well-seasoned 
mutton's more my mark ! 

Smith. And pretty tough, Sir Dennys, from the look 
of you ! 

Sir Den. {Well pleased) Tough enough to 
march some of these youngsters off their feet ! I 
can manage my fifteen miles without turning a hair. 

Smith. Splendid ! 

Alec. I say ! Is there any reason why we shouldn't 
sit down ? 

Sir Den. None at all — none at all ! I should have 
suggested it before, but I didn't quite like to in the 
presence of my superior officers. However, since 
we have Colonel Smith's assurance that he has no 
objection to — er — to — er 

Smith. Very much the contrary. 

Sir Den. Then sit down. Smith, sit down. 

They all seat themselves. 

Now tell me, any news in town this morning ? I 
haven't seen the paper yet. What's the latest 
from Gallipoli? 
Smith. Nothing very encouraging. We don't seem 
to get any "forrader." 



GENERAL POST 73 

Alec. They're waiting for us to get out there. 
Betty. Oh, you're going to Gallipoli, are you ? It's 

settled ? 
Smith. Not settled, Miss Broughton, but — it's on 

the cards. 
Sir Den. When do you expect to sail ? 
Smith. Not for another month or so, anyhow. 
Sir Den. Ah ! Good ! ... By the way, Smith, 

I've not congratulated you yet. 
Smith. Congratulated me, Sir Dennys? 
Sir Den. On your promotion. It must be very 

gratifying for you. 
Smith. It's nice to know that one's thought good 

enough for it. 
Sir Den, Naturally. Mind you, I'm not surprised. 

I've had my eye on you ever since your days in 

the Territorials down here, I marked you down 

for great things, then, if ever there should be a 

time like this. 
Smith. Really, Sir Dennys ? 
Sir Den. Yes. You were one of the few men who 

took the thing really seriously and one of the 

still fewer who realized that this smash with 

Germany was bound to come. 
Smith. {Smilingly) Ah, yes, I remember. My 

opinions used to get me into trouble with you in 

those days. 
Sir Den, With me? No, no, you must be thinking of 

somebody else ! Why, I've realized that the thing 

was inevitable ever since that affair at Agadir ! 

The entrance <?/ Wilson causes a timely diversion. 

Want me, Wilson ? 
Wilson, {Clearly Uncomfortable) There's — um — 

er — a gentleman to see you, Sir Dennys. 
Sir Den, Who is it ? 



74 GENERAL POST 

Wilson. (Hesitatingly) It's — er — er — Colonel 
Smith's brother, Sir Dennys. 

Sir Den. Oh yes, yes, of course, ifle turns to 
Smith in explanation) I asked him to come up 
and see me on — um — er — a little matter of business, 
Probably you'd like to have a word with hira. 

Smith. That's very kind of you, Sir Dennys. 

Sir Den. Not at all. . . . Ask Mr Smith to come 
in, Wilson. 

Wilson goes out. 

{Turning again to Smith) Does your brother 

know that you're down here ? 
Smith. No, I meant to send him a wire, but I forgot. 
Sir Den. Ah ! Then it'll be a pleasant surprise 

for him. 
Smith. {Smiling) I hope it will. 

Wilson reappears in the doorway and announces : — 

Wilson. Mr Smith. 

Albert Smith enters. He is several years 
older than his brother, and is both shorter 
and stouter in build. He looks what he is — 
an eminently respectable tradesman ; and, to 
his credit be it spoken, he has never, in the 
whole course of his career, pretended to be 
anything else. The best and the worst that 
can be told ^Albert Smith is contained in 
the phrase "ti worthy individual'^ No one 
could say more of him, and no one less. He 
is a man of simple tastes and simple habits — 
of mind as much as of body. Entirely with- 
out ambition, he is supremely content with 
his lot, and aspires to nothing higher — be it 
mentally, materially, or socially. He knows 
his " betters " when he sees them, and treats 
them with a deference and respect, their in- 



GENERAL POST 75 

her tied right to which he would never dream 

of questioning any more than he would 

dream of expecting to be received by them as 

an equal. A man s attitude in such matters 

is governed by the measure of his educational 

development, and Albert Smith's education 

has been strictly limited. This is not to say 

that he drops his aitches in speaking, or that 

he is ignorant of the everyday conventions. 

But he is never quite comfortable in the 

presence of his superiors, and his nervousness 

makes hi77i appear more gauche than in 

reality he is. His speech is marred by a 

distinct burr. He wears an overcoat, and 

carries a hard felt hat in his gloved hands. 

Sir Den. Ah ! Come in, Smith — come in ! 

Albert. Thank you, Sir Dennys — good-mornin', 

sir — good-mornin', Miss— good-mornin', Mr Alec. 

Sir Den. We've got your brother here. 

Albert. Hullo, Ted ! Didn't expect to see you. 

Smith. {As they shake hands) I don't suppose you 

did, Bert. How are you ? 
Albert. I'm pretty middlin', thank you. Bit 
bothered by rheumatics. But one's got to expect 
them at my time o' life. No need to ask how you are. 
Smith. No. I'm very fit. 

Albert. You came down on the 10.30, I suppose. 
Smith. No. Mr Broughton was good enough to 

run me down in his car. 
Albert. {Much impressed by what is — to him — a 
remarkable condescension) Indeed ! I'm sure it 
was very kind of Mr Alec. 
Alec. Not a bit. It was very kind of the Colonel 

to give me his company. 
Albert. {Puzzled) The Colonel, Mr Alec ? 
Smith. I thought you knew, Bert — I've been given 
command of the battalion. 



76 GENERAL POST 

Albert. {To his brother) You don't mean to say 

that you an' Mr Alec are in the same regiment ? 
Alec. Rather ! He's the great man, and I'm one 

of his subs — one of what he calls his "band of 

irresponsibles." 
Albert. You don't say so, Mr Alec ! Well, I 

never ! . . . The war's full of surprises, isn't it ? 
Betty. Won't you sit down, Mr Smith ? 
Albert. It's very kind of you, miss, but — if you'll 

excuse me — I'm a bit pressed for time this 

morning, so if Sir Dennys'd be so good as to 

Sir Den. You want to be getting to business, eh ? 
Albert. If it's all the same to you, Sir Dennys. 
Sir Den. {Rising) Right. Then, if you'll excuse 

us, Betty, we'll go into the library. 
Albert. {To his brother) I wonder, Ted, if you'd 

mind just givin' me your advice. 
Smith. With pleasure. What about ? 
Albert. It's about Sir Dennys' tunic. . . . Excuse 

me. Sir Dennys. 

He puts his hand on Sir Dennys' shoulders 
and turns him around so that he can give 
his brother visible evidence of the tunic's 
deficiencies. 

You see what I mean. This back— it won't do at 

all. 
Smith. {Examining the garment with the eye of a 

connoisseur) H'm ! It's certainly not up to the 

mark. 
Albert. Bennett's cut it very badly, I'm afraid. 

... I don't pretend to be an expert in military 

work, but you are — or ought to be by this time — 

so I thought, perhaps 

Smith. I'll come along with you. 

Sir Den. No, no, Smith — sir — it's extremely kind 

of you, but really I couldn't hear of it. 
Smith. Why not, Sir Dennys ? I shall be very pleased. 



GENERAL POST 77 

Sir Den. It's very good of you, but — er — don't you 

know — I — er 

Smith. But I should like to. 

Sir Den. Oh, well, of course — if you insist- 



Smith. (As he opens the door) Then perhaps you'll 
lead the way, Sir Dennys. 

Sir Dennys goes out followed by Smith and 

his brother. 
Betty smiles cynically as the door closes upon 

them. She turns to her brother with 

uplifted eyebrows. 

Betty. Rather a novel situation for a Colonel to 
be placed in, wasn't it ? 

Alec. So novel that only a big man would have 
known how to tackle it. . . . By Gad, it was fine ! 

Betty. {Satirically) Nature's gentleman ! 

Alec ( With defiant emphasis) A sahib ! 

Betty. {Laughing) You're a quaint person, Alec ! 

Alec. Why ? 

Betty. Because you can't help it, I suppose. . . . 
Isn't Father a scream ? 

Alec. He's a marvel ! To hear him talk about the 
Territorials now, one might think that he'd in- 
vented them, and I'll swear that four years ago 
there wasn't a man in the country who did more 
to try and queer their pitch ! He has got a nerve ! 

Betty. And a memory as convenient as that of a 
Cabinet Minister who's crossed the floor of the 
House. ... By the way, Ronny Wareing rang 
up this morning to ask for your address. He's in 
the gunners. 

Alec. I know. Is he on leave ? 

Betty. He has been. But he joins up again to- 
night. They're going to the Front to-morrow. 

Alec Oh, I must see the old chap before he goes. 
What time's he off, d'you know ? 



78 GENERAL POST 

Betty. I'm not quite sure. Some time this after- 
noon, I think. 

The door opens and Smith comes back into the 
room. Betty turns to him. 

Ah ! Has your brother gone ? 

Smith. He ought to have done, Miss Broughton, 
but Sir Dennys kindly offered to take him round 
the farm, and he couldn't resist. Fate has made a 
tailor of him, but Nature certainly intended him 
to be a farmer. 

Betty. {Smiling) Hence the tunic, eh ? 

Alec. I say, sir, Betty's just been telling me that 
my oldest pal is down here on leave. He goes to 
the Front to-night, and — er — well, I should most 
awfully like to wish him luck, and all that sort of 
thing. Would you think it fearfully rotten of me 
if I ran round in the car to see him ? I'd be back 
in half an hour. 

Smith. Of course, my dear fellow. Go, by all means 
— that is if Miss Broughton can put up with me in 
the meantime. 

Alec. Thanks awfully, sir. I shan't be long. 
He goes out. 

Smith {After a brief pause) What a fine lad that 
brother of yours is, Miss Broughton. 

Betty. He is rather a dear, isn't he? 

Smith. One of the best. 

Betty. It's curious that he should have turned out 
as he has done. He used to be such an impos- 
sible little snob. 

Smith. Snobbery's a peace-time complaint. It's like 
the German measles. It's gone completely out of 
fashion since the war. 

Betty. What's the war got to do with snobbery ? 

Smith, A lot ! You see the God of War's in supreme 
command just now — and he's a most shocking old 



GENERAL POST 79 

Socialist ! Blue blood doesn't impress him one 
bit. It's red blood, new blood, the blood of 
healthy men that he demands. 

Betty. He's taking his toll of it. 

Smith. And doesn't it make you thrill to see how 
gladly men are giving it to him? . . . Oh, it's 
good to be an Englishman to-day ! 
There is a little pause before Betty reminds him : — 

Betty. You were saying — about snobbery 

Smith. Oh, yes — I was saying that the God of War's 
got no use for the highly born just because they're 
highly born. But, equally, he's got no use for the 
rich just because they are rich. His favours are 
not for sale. He hands them out to the most 
amazing people. He doesn't seem to care a hang 
who they are, or what they've been, so long as they 
know their job and can be of use to him. 

Betty. Well? 

Smith. Well, what's the use of being a snob under 
those conditions ? Nowadays a man's ability must 
be greater than his side, otherwise Gerraany'U beat 
us, which, as Euclid has it, is absurd ! 

Betty. I don't wonder that you crow ! 

Smith. Oh — please ! — I really wasn't crowing. At 
least, I hope I wasn't. 

Betty. Do you remember the last time that you 
were here? You came in your uniform, and 
people weren't impressed as they ought to have 
been. In fact, they seemed to think it a pity 
that 

Smith. That an otherwise respectable tailor should 
be making such a gratuitous idiot of himself. 

Betty. And now, the very next time that you come 
into the house, you come as my brother's Colonel. 
. . . It's a great score for you ! 
Smith. {^A little anxiously) Do you object ? 
Betty. I think it's most amusing. 



8o GENERAL POST 

Smith. Oh, the God of War's not without a certain 
grim sense of humour. 

Betty. It's not always grim. If you could see 
Father hopping round the park on one foot at the 
command of one of his grooms — well ! 

Smith. (^Appreciatively^ One can't help laughing at 
the idea ! — but, by Jove, it's fine of him ! It must 
be far more difificult for a man of his age and his 
prejudices to place himself voluntarily in a position 
that demands that he should call his tailor "sir" 
than it is for — well, for your brother, for instance. 

Betty. Oh, I don't know. It's all a game to him, 
and that happens to be one of the rules. 

She moves over to a table, upon which are a 
silver cigarette box and a bowl of matches. 
She takes a cigarette, and then offers the box 
to Smith, who takes one also. They smoke. 

Weren't you surprised when your new sub turned 
out to be Alec? 

Smith. Almost as surprised as he was to find me in 
command. {He pauses before continuing hesitat- 
ingly) I hope that 

Betty. Yes ? 

Smith. Well — that it wouldn't have made any differ- 
ence if he'd known that I was to be his Colonel. 

Betty. I thought you said that snobbery had been 
killed by the war. 

Smith. I know. But this is an exceptional case. 

Betty. He seems quite satisfied. In fact, he said 
it was a jolly fine regiment, and he was proud to 
belong to it. 

Smith. {Muck gratified) Ah ! . . . He's going to 
make a first-class soldier. 

Betty. He says you are one. 

Smith. That remains to be proved. I'm a good 
enough soldier on paper. But the test comes 



GENERAL POST 8i 

when you've got to put your knowledge into prac- 
tice, with shells screaming overhead and bullets 
whistling all round you. 

Betty. You sound as though you were actually 
looking forward to the ordeal ! 

Smith. I am looking forward to it ! Oh, if you only 
knew how much ! I've wanted to be a soldier all 
my life, but I've never had the chance of the real 
thing till now. This war, that's brought such 
misery to millions, has brought me my great 
opportunity. 

Betty. And is there nobody to whom it may bring 
misery in your case ? Have you only yourself to 
consider ? 

Smith. There's my brother. But he's married, 
and 

Betty. Aren't you ? 

There is an anxiety underlying her question 
which not all her elaborate assumption of 
indifference can conceal entirely. 

Smith. No — I — I'm not married. 

Betty. That's funny. I felt sure you would be. 

Smith. Why ? 

Betty. I seem to remember you saying that no 
man was complete in himself. That it required 
the blending of two personalities to — to make the 
finished article. 

Smith. I still believe that, but one's got to find 
one's complement first, and — [He pauses a?td 
looks her straight in the face) I haven't. 

Betty. That's a pity, isn't it? It must be very 
trying for you to go about realizing that you're 
only half what you ought to be ! 

Smith. {Smiling) Still, I've got my compensations. 
I have my dream-woman — my ideal. . . . She has 
her advantages, you kno-v. She never argues, and 
she doesn't keep a dressmaker 1 
6 



82 GENERAL POST 

Betty, I don't suppose she would, even in real life. 
Your ideal would naturally be tailor-made. 

Smith laughs. Betty continues : — 
It's funny to hear you talking of ideals again. 

Smith. Is it — why ? 

Betty. It takes me back to the time when they 
used to have the same effect upon me that cham- 
pagne has to-day. 

Smith. You pay me a very pretty compliment. 

Betty. I don't know. You see, champagne always 
goes to my head. So did your ideals. They used to 
make me — well, not quite responsible for my actions. 

Smith. You're making fun of me, Miss Broughton. 

Betty. No, no, indeed ! I'm trying to explain to 
you how it was that I failed to distinguish between 
you and your ideals. I thought that falling in love 
with your ideals was the same thing as falHng in 
love with you — until you, very kindly, brought me 
to my senses. 

Smith. Please — - ! 

Betty. Now I understand that a man and his ideals 
are two totally separate things, that ideals are just 
hobbies, and must never be allowed to interfere 
with business. Of course, they mustn't ! It doesn't 
cost one anything to give up an ideal, but it does 
cost a lot if one has to lose a customer — and, if 
you'd married me, I quite see that you couldn't 
have gone on making trousers for my father. 

Smith. You're being very cruel. Miss Broughton. 

Betty. Oh, surely not ! I just wanted you to know 
that I've learnt my lesson, and that I understand 
now that little things like the amount of one's bank 
balance, the length of one's pedigree, even the way 
one eats one's soup — little things that one ignores 
when one's looking at life ideally — become matters 
of the first importance when one regards it 
practically. 



GENERAL POST 83 

Smith, Really, Miss Broughton, the explanation 
isn't necessary. 

Betty. {Relentlessly^ I've often wondered what 
would have happened if you'd married me. 

Smith. I've wondered too. 

Betty. I'm afraid I should have been an awful 
failure as a tailor's wife. I hate needle- work, and 
house-work, and all that sort of thing — and, of 
course, I should have been expected to sew the 
buttons on and dust the shop, shouldn't I ? 

Smith. Haven't you punished me enough ? 

Betty. Do tell me. Should I have had to sit in 
the parlour, and keep the accounts ? . . . Tailors 
have parlours, don't they ? 

Smith. They're quite normal people. 

Betty. It would have been rather fun sending out 
the bills ! I should have loved writing on them 
in red ink — you know — "This account being con- 
siderably overdue, your immediate attention will 
oblige" — or, "We shall be glad of a remittance 
by return.'' I should have been quite good at that. 
. . . All the same, I think you've had a lucky escape. 
It was a good thing that you didn't care for me. 

Smith. ( With sudden violence) I did care for you ! 

Betty. Oh, please ! 

Smith. No ! You've had your innings, Miss 
Broughton. Now it's my turn. You've been 
very cruel to me. I don't think I've deserved it. 
However, there are always two sides to a question. 
You've shown me one. Let me show you the 
other. From the first moment that I met you, 
I've wanted you as I've wanted nothing else in 
life. You've reminded me that I had the oppor- 
tunity of winning you. Well, at that time, I 
wasn't in a position to make you happy — you 
know the circumstances — and so I deliberately 
recused tiie chance that I would have given my 



84 GENERAL POST 

soul to take. You think that was easy 1 If you 
knew how I suffered ! — how I've gone on suffering 
all these years ! ... If only four years ago had 
been to-day, things might have been different. 
The war's given me my chance, and when it's 
over — well, who knows? Till then I still have 
my dream-woman. She'll come with me to the 
Front. She'll stand beside me in the trenches. 
She'll help me to keep my courage high, and to 
reahze the things I mean to realize — my dream- 
woman, who has your face. 

The tense silence that ensues is broken upon by 
Lady Broughton, who bustles into the room 
so full of excitement at the prospect of greeting 
Alec that she fails to notice Smith, who is 
not directly in her line of vision. 
It is with visible effort that 'Q^tty forces herself 
to appear as if nothing had occurred to disturb 
her in the interval which has elapsed between 
her mother's departure from the house and 
her return. 
Betty. Hullo, Mother! Back sooner than you 

expected. 
Lady B. Yes. I was a little late in getting there, 
so they put that dreadful Mrs Ruislip in the chair. 
Of course she talked the whole time, and talked 
such absurd nonsense that I simply hadn't the 
patience to stop and listen to her. 

She turns her head, and catches sight of somebody 
in uniform. Her first thought being for Alec, 
she gives an exclamation of delight^ which 
turns into one of disappointed enquiry as she 
realizes her mistake. Betty reminds her : — 
Betty. I think you know Colonel Smith, dear, 
don't you ? 

Lady BrouCtHTON raises her lo?g?iettes to her 
eyes, and regards Smith curiously. 



GENERAL POST 85 



Lady B. Do I ? ... I don't think I— er 

Smith. {Smiling, as he advances to greet her) You've 

forgotten me, Lady Broughton. 
Lady B. Why, of course, it's Mister Smith. {She 

becomes graciously patronizing) It's such a long 

time since you left Sheffingham that I really didn't 

recognize you. How do you do ? 
Smith. I'm very well, thank you, Lady Broughton, 

I hope you are. 
Lady B. I'm quite well, thank you. . . . Did I 

hear Miss Broughton say that you were a Colonel? 
Smith. I've just been promoted. 
Lady B. How very nice for you ! . . . You're 

waiting to see Sir Dennys, I suppose? 
Betty. Colonel Smith's seen Father already, Mother. 

He's waiting for Alec. 
Lady B. {As who would say, ^^ I really can! t see any 

reason why he shouW) Oh! . . . Where is 

Alec ? 
Betty. He's just run over to Kingsworthy to say 

good-bye to Ronny Wareing. He goes to the 

Front to-night, you know. 
Lady B. {Much perturbed) Alec does ! 
Betty. No, no, dear ! Ronny. 
Lady B. ( With a sigh of relief) Oh ! . . . You 

gave me quite a shock ! . . . He'll be back for 

lunch ? 
Betty. Sure to be. 
Lady B. Ah ! ... I thought you said that he was 

bringing his CO. down with him. 

Smith is on the point of announcing that he is 
the officer in question, but Betty restrains 
him by a gesture. 
Betty. So he has done. 
Lady B. Well, where is he ? 

Betty. ( With a mischievous glance at Smith) Some- 
where about the house. 



86 GENERAL POST 

The door oJ)ens, and Alec bursts into the room 
in his usual breezy fashion. 
Alec. {Addressing the company in general) Well, I 

haven't been long, have I ? 
Lai>y B. {A great joy and a great pride in her voice) 
My boy ! 

She hastens towards him. 
Alec moves up to meet her. 
Alec. Hello, Mater ! By Jove, it's good to see you 
again ! 

Lady Broughtonj^/^^ him in her arms and 
embraces him tenderly. Alec frees himself 
gently and holds her at arm^s lengthy regard- 
ing her with loving admiration. 
You're looking jolly fit ! 
Lady B. And so are you, dear — splendid ! That's 

a great relief to me. 

Alec. Why, what did you expect ? Were you 

afraid that the nasty, rough army wouldn't agree 

with your spoiled darling ? 

Lady B. Well, dear, it was a great change for you. 

Alec. A great change for the better ! . . . It's made 

a different man of me — hasn't it, Betty ? — eh .? 
Betty. ( With emphasis) It has, indeed ! 
Lady B. Now, tell me, what have you done with 
your Colonel ? 

Alec looks from her to Smith with knitted brow. 
He suspects the presence of a joke, but is 
uncertain. 
Alec. Done with him ? What do you mean, Mater ? 
Poor Smith is growing very uncomfortable. 
He senses an awkward moment approaching, 
but having been inveigled by Betty into be- 
coming a passive accessory to her mischievous 
plot, does not see how he is to avert it. 
Lady B. Well, where is he ? 

His mother's tone convinces Alec that she has 



GENERAL POST 87 

not beefi informed Oj the circumstances. He 
turns to his sister. 
Alec. Haven't you told the Mater, Betty ? 
Lady B. Betty's told me that he's somewhere about 

the house, but 

Alec. {Imagining that he has solved the mystery) 
Oh, I see ! {B.e turns to Smith) So you and 
Betty have been conspiring to pull the Mater's leg, 
sir, have you ? 

The first premonition of the awful truth catches 
at Lady Broughton's heart-strings. 

Lady B. Pull my ! {She breaks off abruptly^ 

and looks ivith burning eyes from Smith to Betty. 
In their faces she reads the truth, but — despite the 
certainty — she refuses to believe it. She tu?'ns again 
to her son, and exclaims wildly) Alec ! You 

can't mean ! 

Alec. {Now more 77iystified tha?i ever) What, 
Mater ? 

She turns from him with trembling lips. 
Smith steps into the breach. 
Smith. {Uncomfortably, but not without dignity) 
Fm afraid, Broughton, that your mother is dis- 
tressed to learn — {He pauses, anxious to choose 
his words aright) 
Alec. To learn what, sir ? 

Smith. That I have the honour to command the 
battalion to which you have been gazetted. 

Such a suggestion appeals to Alec as being too 
preposterous for words. He resents it, and 
exclaims as indignantly as the etiquette of 
the service will permit : — 

Alec. Oh, please, sir ! Really ! 

He has anticipated from his mother an im- 
mediate and equally indignant repudiation 



88 GENERAL POST 

^Smith's interpretation of her discomposure. 
Her silence astounds and dismays him. He 
turns to her and exclaims in deep concern : — 
Mater ! 

Sir Dennys' voice is heard outside the door. 
Sir Den. iOff) Come in, Smith ; come in. 
He enters^ followed by Albert Smith. 
{To Lady B.) Ah, so you've got back, my dear. . . . 

This is Mr Albert Smith. 
Lady B. {Stiffly — inclining her head) How do 

you do ? 
Albert. Nicely, thank you, m'lady. Hope you are. 
Lady B, Thank you. 

The atfnosphere of acute discomfort that prevails 

in the room communicates itself to Sir 

Dennys. He divines that some contretemps 

has occurred in his absence^ and makes a 

valiant — if uneasy — effort to counteract it. 

He addresses himself to Smith with assumed 

breeziness. 

Sir Den. Well — er — er — your brother turns out to 

be quite an authority on agricultural matters, Smith 

— um — er — {He glances nervously in the direction oj 

his wife and lowers his voice before adding) — sir. 

{He observes with satisfaction that his correction has 

passed unnoticed., and continues more boisterously) 

I'd no idea. It was a real pleasure to take him 

round. 

Albert. ( Who alone is oblivious of the awkwardness 

of the situation) I'm sure it's very good of you to 

say that. Sir Dennys. It was a great pleasure to 

me to go round. 

He turns ivith enthusiasm to his brother.^ and Sir 
Dennys seizes the opportunity of endeavouring 
to get Betty to communicate to him in dumb 
show some idea o^ what has happened. 



GENERAL POST 89 

Albert. My word, Ted, if you haven't seen 'em 
already, you ought to go and have a look at the 
beasts Sir Dennys has got fattenin' in the byre. 
They're champion ! — far and away the best lot I've 
seen anywhere roundabouts. 
Smith. {Anxious to get away the moment that escape 
can be contrived) Are they, indeed ? Good ! . . . 
Well, now, I think, if Lady Broughton will excuse 
us, we'd better be getting along, Bert. 
Albert. {In evident astonishment) Are you coming 

along o' me ? 
Sir Den. {As i?i duty bound) Aren't you going to 
stay to luncheon, sir ? Lady Broughton and I — 

er 

In the agitation of the moment Sir Dennys has 
omitted to lower his voice before according 
Smith the title of respect that is his due. 
Lady Broughton starts as though she had 
been shot, and stares at her husband in blank 
amazement. He avoids meeting her eye. 
Smith. It's very kind of you, Sir Dennys, but I think 

my brother's expecting me to lunch with him. 
Albert. Well, not exactly expectin' you, Ted, but 

— er 

Smith digs his elbow sharply into his brother's 
ribs, a«^ Albert exclaims in astonishment: — 
Eh? 

The expression upon his brother's face brings 

home to his slow-working i?itelligence the fact 

that he has said the wrong thing. He makes 

haste to continue, albeit in to?ie of puzzlement: — 

Well, I'm sure Gert'll be very glad to see you, if 

you don't mind takin' pot-luck. 

Alec rushes desperately to the rescue. 
Alec. {To Smith) If yoa really must go, sir, why 
not let me run you down in the car? It's just 
outside. 



90 GENERAL POST 

The suggestion fills Lady Broughton's cup of 
mortification to overflowing. 

Albert. {Protesting) Oh, no, Mr Alec, sir ! We 
couldn't think of troublin' you. We can just as 
easy walk. 

Alec. Nonsense ! It won't take me half a second. 

Smith. Thanks, Broughton. Much obliged. 

Unable to reconcile himself to the new condition 
of things, Albert gasps in open-mouthed 
astonishment at such effrontery. He strives 
to divert attention from his brother s lack of 
deference, and to make it evident at the same 
time that he, at any rate, is not devoid of a 
proper respect for his superiors by hurrying 
down to the door, and holding it open for 
Alec to go through. 

Alec. I'll go and wind her up. 

kL-E.c:goes out, Aijeert following him. 

Sir Dennys stands by the doorway. 

Smith advances to Lady Broughton and 
takes his leave of her. 

Smith. Good-bye, Lady Broughton. {He lowers his 
voice) You may rest assured that I shall not 
presume on my position. 

Lady Broughton is speechless. 

Smith turns towards Betty, who stands, 
irresolute, by the window. 

Good-bye, Miss Broughton. 

The strain which Betty has endured is 
beginning to tell on her. She answers him 
in a strained voice : — 

Betty. Good-bye . . . and — in case I don't see 
you again before you go out — good luck 1 



GENETIAL POST 91 

Smith. {Gravely) Thank you. {He 7?ioves to the 

door) Good-bye, Sir Dennys. 
Sir Den. I'm coming to see you off. 
Smith. Oh, then 

They go out, talking^ 

A brief silence ensues before Lady Broughton 
exclaims passionately : — 

Lady B. What can Alec have been thinking of? 
Betty. {In a dull voice) His duty to his country, 

I suppose. 
Lady B. Certainly not his duty to his — caste ! 

Again silence falls . The sound of the departing 
motor-car is heard. 

Sir Dennys comes back into the room, his 
nerves as much on edge as those of everybody 
else. He exclaims agitatedly : — 

Sir Den. Marian, what on earth have you been 
doing ? 

Lady B. Doing my utmost to preserve my sanity. 
Everybody else would seem to have taken leave of 
their senses ! 

Sir Den. Don't talk such ridiculous nonsense ! 

Lady B. Did I, or did I not, hear you call the man 
who used to be your tailor " sir " ? 

Sir Den. You heard me address my son's Colonel, 
and my superior officer, by the title of respect that 
is his due. 

Lady B. Really, Dennys, I have no patience with 
you ! If you must play at soldiers at your time 
of life, you might at least keep your folly within 
reasonable bounds. If you're going to be logical, 
why don't you call your footman " sir " ? He's 
some sort of officer in the " Church Lads' Brigade"! 

Sir Den. There are moments, Marian, when you 



92 GENERAL POST 

annoy me — when you annoy me very much. There 
are times when you are positively wrong-headed ! 

He stumps angrily across the room. 

Betty's overwrought nerves begin to get the 
mastery of her. She commences to laugh — 
hysterically — and is incapable of restraint. 

Lady B. ( Wildly) Am I standing on my head or 
my heels ? 

Sir Den. You're standing on your dignity — a very 
wrong proceeding in time of war. 

Lady B. Dignity ! When I consider that my son — 
my son ! — can actually take it for granted that his 
tailor would have the audacity to — to " pull — my — 
leg," I don't feel that I have a shred of dignity left 
to me! 

Sir Den. Marian, I'm ashamed of you ! That you, 
the mother of a subaltern, the wife of a private 
soldier, should have had so little respect for the 
King's uniform as to behave as you have done to 
their superior officer — an officer of field rank ! — 
it's — it's unbelievable ! Not only have you dis- 
graced us both shamefully, you've — you've preju- 
diced our position in the army beyond redemption! 

Betty's last re7nnant of self-control deserts her 
finally. She bursts into a peal of hysterical 
laughter. 

Betty. General Post ! . . . Ha, ha, ha, ha ! . . . 
General Post ! 

Her laughter changes suddenly to tears. She 
weeps bitterly and uncontrollably. Sir 
Dennys and Lady Broughton both turn 
and regard their daughter in amazement. 

The Curtain Falls, 



ACT III 

The Scene remains the same as in the previous acts, 
but whereas the costumes worn by the players in 
Acts I. and II. must be in accord necessarily with 
the fashions of igii and 19 15, the designer of the 
garments to be worn in this, the final act, has 
fine scope for an exercise of his inventive genius. 
Greatly daring, the Author has looked forward to 
that halcyon time when the Great War shall have 
ended {in entire favour of the Allied forces — bien 
entendul) and raises the curtain up07i a period 
which, at the time of writing, can be seen only 
" as through a glass, darkly " — even by the most 
visionary amongst us. Those in authority are free 
to choose what season of the year they will as the 
period in which the events of the last act transpire 
— but, seeing that they are supposed to eventuate 
six months after the ''''Peace of Berlin, ^^ the author 
is inclined to favour the end of April or the 
beginnifig of May as being, in logic, the most 
reasonable time to fix upon for their occurrence. 
Furthermore, the spring-time is essentially and 
poetically appropriate, so, if the decision depefid 
upon nothing more weighty than personal pre- 
dilection, let it fall upon April or May, 

As at the opening of the first act, the hour is 10 a.m. 
The morning is fair, and, as the sun floods the 
room with light, so does the song of the birds, 
penetrating from the garden through the open 
windows, fill it with melody. 

Lady Broughton, who is alone in the room when the 
curtain rises, is engaged upon her every morning 



94 GENERAL POST 

task of dustifig the china. After a brief interval., 
Alec enters^ attired in a suit of light tweeds. He 
looks very fit, but is obviously sleepy. The events 
in which he has played his part during the interval 
ensuing between the end of the second act and the 
opening of the third have left their mark on hint. 
Both in 7na?iner and appearance he is older. He 
has attaijied to his full manhood, and, in the course 
of its acquisition, he has developed latent faculties 
and sympathies which have transformed him from 
a selfish, heedless, happy-go-lucky boy into a con- 
siderate and thoughtful man. This is not to say 
that he has become, in any ivay, a prig. Far from 
it. He is full of high spirits and of fun, and men 
and wome7i alike find him a delightful companion. 

Lady Broughton turns to greet him. 

Lady B. Ah, so you're down, dear ! Have you had 

your breakfast ? 
Alec. Yes, thanks. Mater. 

They embrace. 

Lady B. Everything all right ? 

Alec. Perfectly, thanks. . . . How are you this 

morning ? 
Lady B. Just a little tired, dear. I expect you're 

dreadfully tired, aren't you ? 
Alec. I'm a bit sleepy. 
Lady B. What time did the ball finish ? 
Alec. I dun'no. It was after four when we got back. 
Lady B. Poor boy ! . . . No wonder you're sleepy. 

Betty's staying in bed. Why didn't you } 
Alec. Because I wanted my breakfast. 
Lady B. Didn't you have it in bed ? 
Alec. Good Lord, no ! 
Lady B. Why not ? 
Alec. I can't stick the crumbs ! . . . Besides, as a 



GENERAL POST 95 

matter of fact, I haven't been to sleep at all. 
When we were at the Front we got into the habit of 
always waking up at day-break — unless we were 
dead-beat — and 1 haven't got out of it yet. 
Lady B. {With maternal solicitude) Then you 
must go and lie down this afternoon. I can't have 
you going without sleep. There's nothing knocks 
one up so quickly. 
Alec. {In mock protest) Oh, but you promised that 
you'd never send me to bed in the afternoon again 
after I was seven ! — unless I was very naughty 
And I haven't been naughty to-day yet ! 

Lady B. It was naughty of you not to stay in bed 
for breakfast. I'd given orders that you were to. 

Alec. {Laughing) You are a dear. Mater ! You 
make just as much fuss of me as you did when I 
was a little boy. In fact, I believe you still think 
of me as a little boy. 

Lady B. To me, darling, you'll always be my little 
boy. 

Alec. {Drawing down his mother's head and kissing 
her tenderly up07i the brow) Bless you ! 

Lady B. Now tell me more about last night. Did 
Betty dance much with the Brigadier? 

Alec. Dance ? No. The ballroom saw very little 
of either of them. 

Lady B. You mean ? 

Alec. That I imagine that more secluded places 
saw a lot. 

Lady B. Alec, what's going to happen ? 

Alec. I wish to goodness I knew ! 

Lady B. Are you worried about it ? 

Alec. Yes, dear, I — I can't help feeling a bit worried. 

Lady B. You're afraid that she'll accept him. 
Alec starts and looks at his mother curiously. 

Alec. Afraid that she will? . . . No. I'm afraid 
that she won't ! 



96 GENERAL POST 

Lady Broughton sighs, unmistakably in 
relief. Alec inquires of her anxiously : — 

Mater, you — you don't want her to refuse him, do 
you? 

Lady B. I don't know, dear, I 

Alec. i^In shocked surprise) Mater ! 

Lady B. You've got to remember. Alec, that, ever 
since I was a little girl, I've been brought up on 
certain prejudices that have become part of my 
nature. One can't change one's nature at a 
moment's notice. 

Alec. Hasn't the war changed it ? It's changed 
mine — in that sort of way — and I thought that it 
must have changed everybody's. / used to think 
that certain ideas were part of myself, but — some- 
how or other — they've gone, and quite opposite 
ones have taken their place. It's been as Betty 
said from the beginning that it v^^ould be. It's 
been a case of " General Post " for all of us. 

Lady B. "General Post" is a game for young 
people, dear. One finds it a little trying when 
one gets to my age. 

Alec. {Putting his arm affectionately around her) 
Poor old Mater ! 

Sir Dennys enters by the window. He wears 
a suit of rough tweeds similar to that in which 
he was attired in the first act. 

Sir Den. Ah ! Mornin', my boy. How are you 
feeling after all your dissipation, eh ? 

Alec. Oh, pretty fit, sir — ail things considered. 

Sir Den. That's right! . . . Well, I think every- 
thing went off very well yesterday, didn't it ? 

Alec Capitally. 

Sir Den. Smith must be feeling a proud man this 
morning. 



GENERAL POST 97 

Alec. Not he ! 

Sir Dennys looks at him in high surprise. 

He's one of the most modest chaps I ever met — 
too modest by half. 

Sir Den. He can afford to be modest with every- 
body in the country blowing his trumpet for 
him ! . . . You know it's amazing ! It really is ! 
To think that a chap who started life as a tailor 
in a provincial town, without any influence behind 
him, and without anybody to give him a helping 
hand, should have got where he's got, and set the 
whole world ringing with his name — upon my 
word, it's marvellous ! Marvellous ! 

Lady B. It just shows what a man can do once he 
makes up his mind. 

Alec. And the ripping part of it is that it hasn't 
spoilt him one bit. He's as fine a chap as ever. 

Lady B. I did like the little speech that he made 
in the Guildhall yesterday. It was so manly and 
natural — not a scrap of nonsense about it. 

Sir Den. It was an excellent little speech — couldn't 
have been better. ... By the way. Alec, what 
did you think of mine ? 

Alec. I thought it went awfully well, sir. 

Sir Den. It did go well, didn't it ? Livened 'em 
up a bit. 

Wilson enters. He carries a newspaper upon 
a salver. 

Wilson. "The Shefifingham Courier," m'lady. 

Sir Den. Ah, I expect there'll be something about 
it in that. 

Alec. {As he takes the paper from Wilson, who goes 
out) Something ! There'll be columns ! The 
" Courier's" not had such a chance to spread itself 
since peace was declared. . . . Yes. Here we 



98 GENERAL POST 

are ! . . . Reams of it ! {He reads out the head- 
lines) 

"A Hero's Home-coming. 

Sheffingham Honours her Greatest Son. 

Freedom of the City bestowed upon 

Brigadier-General Smith, V.C. 

Historic Occasion in the Guildhall. 
Striking Scenes and Stirring Speeches." 

By George ! {He passes the paper to his mother) 
Sir Den. You might read it to us, my dear. 
Lady B. Oh, I couldn't ! There're pages of it. 
Sir Den. Well, what's it say about my speech, eh ? 
Lady B. Let's see. . . . Ah, here we are. . . . 

D'you want me to read it ? 
Sir Den. You might as well. 
Lady B. {Reads) "Sir Dennys Broughton, whose 

rising was the signal for an outburst of enthusiastic 

and prolonged applause " 

Sir Den. {Appreciatively) Ah ! 

Lady B. " — was in his happiest vein, and spoke 

with an eloquent sincerity that made a deep 

impression upon the vast assembly." 
Sir Den. Very nice of 'em to say so, I'm sure. 
Lady B. "After a graceful reference to the respect 

and esteem in which General Smith had been held 

by all classes during the years that he had resided 

in Sheffingham, Sir Dennys proceeded to sketch 

briefly the course of the eminent soldier's career 

from the moment that he first identified himself 

with military matters by joining the Territorial 

forces at the time of their inception." 
Alec Oh, I say ! . . . You know. Pater, it's a good 

thing you weren't as long-winded as the gentleman 

who's reported you. 
Sir Den. Eh? .... Oh, I dunno ... I think 

he's put it rather well myself. ... Go on, my dear. 



GENERAL POST 99 

Lady B. "Although he dealt of the matter with alight 
touch, the observant could not fail to discern " 

Alec. Or the discerning to observe ! 

Lady B. '* — a bitter note of scorn underlying Sir 
Dennys' reference to the unfortunately large body 
of people who were wont, at one time, to regard the 
Territorial movement with contempt. It afforded 
him much pleasure to reflect that he had not been 
numbered amongst these human clogs upon the 
wheels of progress." 

Alec. I like that. That's distinctly good. "Human 
clods upon the wheels of progress." First-class ! 

Lady B. Sh ! [She finds her place again and con- 
tinues -^ "... upon the wheels of progress. . . . 
It afforded him even more pleasure to recall the 
fact that he had been privileged to be amongst the 
few who had recognized General Smith's command- 
ing ability many years before there came to him 
the opportunity to exercise his military genius 
before the eyes of an astounded world." 

Alec. If you could have seen Smith's face when 
you said that ! 

Lady B, {Interrupting him hurriedly) " Loud and 
prolonged applause." 

Alec. It brought the house down all right. 

Lady B. {In gentle protest) Don't interrupt, dear, 
if you don't mind, or I shall never get to the^^end. 

Alec. Sorry, Mater. 

Sir Den. It makes it very difficult to follow, you know. 

Alec. Sorry, sir. 

Sir Den. That's all right, my boy. . . . Now get 
along, my dear. 

Lady B. Let's see, where did we get to ? . . . 
Oh yes, " — an astounded world. He was bound 
to confess that he looked back with a certain grati- 
fication to the enthusiasm with which he had re- 
ceived the news that his son had been gazetted to 



loo GENERAL POST 



a commission in the regiment of which the General 
was at that time in command " 



Alec refrains from comment only with extreme 
difficulty. He utters a strange sound which^ 
if one were charitably minded^ might be attri- 
buted to a clearing of his throat. 
(Lady B. continues) " And he was proud to feel 
that his own flesh and blood had been privileged 
to stand by the General's side on that memorable 
occasion on which, by an act of gallantry and daring 
unparalleled in the annals of our Empire, he had 
saved a division from disaster, and had won for 
himself not only the most illustrious decoration in 
the world, but an undying fame and an imperish- 
able glory." 

Alec. I wish you hadn't dragged me into it, Pater. 
I did nothing — except obey orders. 

Sir Den. A soldier doesn't get his D.S.O. for noth- 
ing, my boy. 

Lady B. General Smith told me himself that, if it 
hadn't been for you 

Alec. I know, dear. But that's just his generosity. 
I believe he'd have said the same even if I'd turned 
tail and run ! 

Sir Den. Stuff and nonsense ! 

Alec. I mean it. He's that sort. . . . Now for the 
peroration ! Fire ahead, Mater ! 

Lady B. " We will give the remainder of Sir Dennys 
Broughton's speech in his own words : — ' The story 
of that gallant enterprise must be too fresh in the 
minds of all of you to require repetition. But can 
you picture it? If any of you have visited the 
tropics, you will probably have had experience of 
a tropical hailstorm. If you have, you are not 
likely to have forgotten it. Imagine then, if you 
can, just such a storm, but with this awful differ- 
ence — instead of stones, a hail of flying mullets ! ' " 



GENERAL POST loi 

Sir Den. A hail of — what} 
Lady B. Mullets ! 
Sir Den. Mullets ! 
Lady B. That's what it puts. 

Sir Den. Oh, nonsense ! They — let's have a 
look at it ! 

He fishes in his pockets for his glasses, puts them 
on, and takes the paper from his wife. He 
scans the report, and finding that Lady 
Broughton's reading is correct, crumples it 
into a ball, and flings it from him furiously , 

Damnation ! 
Lady B. What ought it to have been, dear ? 
Sir Den. Why, bullets, of course ! ... I'd like to 

put a few into the " Courier's " reporter ! 
Alec. Oh, cheer up, Pater ! It isn't so bad that it 

mightn't have been a great deal worse. 
Sir Den. How d'you mean ? 
Alec. Well, mullets are quite nice fish. Supposing 

he'd put haddocks ! 

The suggestion causes Sir Dennys to explode 
in afresh outburst of indignation. 
Sir Den. It's outrageous ! There's no other word 

for it — outrageous ! It's my opinion that it's done 

on purpose ! 
Lady B. My dear ! 
Sir Den. It is, indeed. The "Courier's" a radical 

rag, and its editor's a most unscrupulous chap. 

I've noticed once or twice before — when I've been 

addressing a meeting on Tariff Reform or some- 
thing of that sort — they've made me say the most 

ridiculous things. 
Alec. ( With a twi7ikle in his eye) Oh, surely not, 

made you say them, Pater ? 
Sir Den. {Oblivious of the sarcasm) Yes, they 

have. They've deliberately misreported me ! . . . 



I02 GENERAL POST 

All this Stuff and nonsense that they talk about 

party politics having ended with the war ! Looks 

like it, doesn't it ? 
Lady B. It's certainly very careless of them to have 

made such a mistake. But I shouldn't let it 

worry you, dear, if I were you. 
Sir Den. I've no intention of letting it worry me. 

But, you must admit, Marian, it's annoying — to 

say the least of it. 
Alec. Until you see the funny side of it. 
Sir Den. ( With exasperation) The funny side of 

a mullet ! Tchah ! 
Lady B. {To Alec) Are we to expect General 

Smith to luncheon, dear? 
Alec. If he can manage to get up in time. 
Sir Den. Why ? Was he very late last night ? 
Alec. I don't expect he turned in much before 

half-past four. 
Sir Den. He stayed to the end then? 
Alec. Well, seeing that the ball was given in his 

honour, he more or less had to. 
Sir Den. Oh, yes, yes, of course. I didn't think 

of that. ... By the way, Alec, I wanted to ask 

you — Cholmondeley was chipping me about the 

attention that Smith was paying to Betty. Said 

all the other girls were furious. None of 'em got 

a look in. Did you notice it at all? 
Lady B. I asked Alec the same question just before 

you came in, dear. He seems to think that we 

oughtn't to attach too much importance to it. 

Sir Dennys turns in surprise to his son. 

Sir Den. D'you mean that Smith has not been 
paying marked attention to your sister ? 

Alec. {Uncotnfortably) No, not quite that. But 
— er 



GENERAL POST 103 

Lady B. Alec thinks that Betty likes him very much, 
dear — but only as a friend. 

Sir Den. (7b Alec) But why? What makes you 
think that ? 

Alec. That's rather a difficult question to answer. 
I — I've got nothing definite to go upon. But 
little things that Betty's said to me from time to 
time, little things that 

Sir Den. Pshaw ! She's said the same sort of 
" little thing " to me — deliberately, to try and put 
me off the scent. But Tve not allowed myself to 
be taken in ! . . . Betty's not the girl to wear her 
heart upon her sleeve. 

Alec's sole answer is a sigh of non-conviction. 

Lady B. Am I to gather, then, Dennys, that the 
match would meet with your approval ? 

Sir Den. Emphatically ! . . . Wouldn't it meet 
with yours ? 

Lady B. I don't know. I — I do wish he hadn't 
been a tailor. 

Sir Den. {Pained) My dear Marian, such a re- 
flection is unworthy of you. It borders upon — 
well, I had almost said — er — snobbishness ! 

Lady B. (Sweetly) Of course, dear, you never 
felt like that about him. 

Sir Den. I — er — I — er — I'm happy to say that I 
don^t feel like that about him. ... In my opinion, 
he's earned the right to be treated — well, as one 
of us. 

Alec. He's not the first man who's risen to great 
heights from very small beginnings, you know, 
Mater. 

Sir Den. Of course he isn't ! Take the great Duke 
of Marlborough for instance. We all know that he 
started life as a bugler in the army. 



I04 GENERAL POST 

Alec Did he ? I thought he was a cornet. 

Sir Den. Well, I know it was some sort of wind- 
instrument ! 

Alec. {^Laughing) A cornet was a lieutenant. 

Sir Den. An honorary lieutenant, perhaps — if he 
was the bandmaster. But that doesn't matter. 
Point is he started at the bottom of the ladder, 
and became eventually the founder of an historic 
line. And I see no reason at all why Smith 
shouldn't do the same thing. 

Alec. Whether he does or he doesn't, he'll still be 
the best fellow in the world. The girl who gets 
him'll be jolly lucky. 

Sir Den. I'm entirely with you, my boy. 

Lady B. Well, I seem to be outvoted. ... I think 
you were right, Dennys. It was snobbery that was 
making me hesitate. Alec's fine faith in the man 
by whose side he's fought, and whom he's had 
opportunity of proving as you and I never can 
have, makes my objections seem very contemptible, 
and very small. I — I'm ashamed of myself. 

Alec, muck touched^ kisses his mother. 

Alec. Dear old Mater ! 

Lady B. But, after all, our opinions are not of much 
importance. The decision rests entirely with Betty. 
Sir Den. Exactly ! Exactly ! 

Betty enters^ looking delightfully fresh and 
pretty in a simple morning gown. She goes 
up to her mother and kisses her " Good- 
morning P 

Betty. Am I the last down? 

Lady B. We didn't expect you to be the first, dear. 

In fact we didn't expect to see you down at all 

before lunch. 



GENERAL POST 105 

Betty. I should love to have stayed in bed, but 
General Smith bet me that I shouldn't be down 
when he arrived, and I bet him a box of choco- 
lates that I should, so, of course I had to get up. 

Sir Den. You little humbug, you ! . . . Come here, 
and kiss your father. 

Betty. [Obeying) Why am I a humbug? 

Sir Den. How many dances did you have with the 
Brigadier last night ? 

Betty. I dun'no. Quite a lot. 

Sir Den. So we've heard. 

Betty. Well, you see, he's quite a good dancer, and 
our steps go well together. I'd rather not dance 
at all than dance with somebody who keeps 
tumbling over your feet the whole time. 

Sir Den. H'm ! 

Lady B. {Guilelessly) Didn't you sit out at all, dear? 

Betty. We sat out one or two, I think. General 
Smith was rather tired after all that business in the 
Guildhall, and the luncheon, and so on. . . . He's 
a most amusing person to sit out with. There's 
no end to the funny stories he's brought back from 
the Front. 

Sir Den. ( With would-be humorous sarcasm) And 
I suppose he was telling you funny stories all the 
time ! 

Betty. Most of it. 

Sir Den. You're a minx, young woman ! That's 
what you are ! — a sly minx ! 

Betty. What do you mean, Father? What's all 
this about ? 

Lady B. I think your father means, dear, that if 
you and General Smith are still fond of one 
another, we see no reason why 

Betty. You don't mean to say — ? . . . Oh, really, 
it's too silly ! 



io6 GENERAL POST 

Sir Den. Silly ! What's silly ? 

Betty. Why, to imagine that there's anything of 

that sort between us. General Smith and I are 

very good friends — and that's all. 

A pause of stupefaction. Everybody regards 

this statement as direct confirmation of Alecks 

forebodings. Sir Dennys clears his throat. 

Sir Den. Very well. If that's the case, all I've 

got to say is that I think you've treated him 

abominably ! 
Betty. How do you make that out ? 
Sir Den. A man has every right to expect more 

than mere friendship from a girl who gives him 

half her programme at a ball. 
Betty. Really, Father, what rubbish ! You go to 

a dance to dance — not to talk twaddle under a 

palm. If you find a man who dances well, you 

can give him your whole programme, and he'll 

think no more about it. 
Sir Den. I'm sure Smith didn't look at it in that 

light. 
Betty. How do you know ? 
Sir Den. Ask Alec. 

Betty, who is becoming very annoyed^ turns to 
her brother. 
Betty. Well ? 
Alec. I know he's jolly fond of you, Betty. You 

must know it, too. 
Betty. Oh ! So it's a conspiracy, is it ? 
Sir Den. What d'you mean — conspiracy ? 
Lady B. {Gently) Don't talk nonsense, dear. 
Betty. Well, you all appear to have been discussing 

the matter, and to have made up your minds that 

I ought to marry General Smith, regardless of 

whether I wish to do so, or I don't. 



GENERAL POST 107 

Lady B. It's foolish to talk like that, dear. You 
know perfectly well that we don't wish you to do 
anything that you don't wish to do yourself. 

Sir Den. Exactly ! If you don't love the man — 
well, there's an end of it. 

Betty. But years ago, when I wanted to marry him, 
you were all of you furious. You said you'd sooner 
see me — well, in Germany ! Now the situation's 
reversed. I don't want to marry him, and you're 
all insisting that I shall. 

Lady B. We're not insisting on anything at all, dear. 

Betty. Well, you'd all like me to marry him, that's 
obvious. . . . What's made you change your 
minds ? Isn't he the same man now that he was 
then? 

Sir Den. Of course he isn't ! 

Betty. Then he isn't the man who used to come 
here and measure you for your clothes ? 

Sir Den. You'll make me very angry with you in a 
minute, Betty. You know perfectly well what I 
mean. It was not the man himself I was referring 
to. It w^as his position. 

Betty. (Very sweetly) Oh, I see. Then it's not 
the man you want me to marry. It's his position. 

Sir Den. Upon my word, of all the impossible 
women I've ever had to deal with, I — I ! 

Lady B. Well, let's talk of something else — shall 
we? 

Alec. Yes, for goodness sake, do ! . . . But I must 
say, Betty, that I think it's rotten — worse than 
rotten — of a girl to lead a man on, as you've led 
Smith, if she's no intention of seeing the thing 
through. 

Betty alters her tactics. She becomes all 
penitence and sweetness. 

Betty. Oh, please, don't let's get cross about it. 



io8 GENERAL POST 

It's all my fault, I know. 1 got cross first. I'm 
sorry. That's the worst of going to bed too late. 
One's so liable to get out of it the wrong side next 
morning. {She goes to her father caressingly) I'm 
so sorry, Father, if I made you vexed with me. 
Do forgive me, please ! 

Sir Den. {Mollified) There, there, my dear. We 
won't say any more about it. 

Betty. But I want you to say more about it. ... I 
want your advice. I want the advice of all of you. 

Sir Den. Well, my dear, we're only too ready to 
give it to you. 

Betty. You'll remember that the first time this 
subject came up — ages ago now — I thought it was 
just snobbishness that made you all so set against 
the idea of my marrying Mr Smith. 

Sir Den. And, since then, you've realized how 
wrong you were. 

Betty. I know. But, just for the moment, I 
couldn't help the suspicion that it might be some- 
thing of the sort t.iat made you want me to marry 
him now. 

Sir Den. Why on earth should you think that ? 

Betty. Mr Smith, the tailor, was a nobody. Brigadier- 
General Smith, V.C., is a somebody — very much a 
somebody. 

Sir Den. Well? 

Betty. Well, it just crossed my mind that, whereas 
it wouldn't have been nice for you — in fact, you 
couldn't very well have introduced people to your 
son-in-law Mr Smith, the tailor, it might give you 
considerable satisfaction to introduce them to your 
son-in-law General Smith — the man who saved the 
situation at Cojada, or whatever the name of the 
place was. 

Sir Den. Such a thought never entered my head ! 



GENERAL POST 109 

Betty. No, I'm sure it didn't. I'm only just saying 
that I'm sorry that it entered mine. 

Alec. But, look here, old girl, you can't very well 
compare things as they are now with things as they 
were in 1 9 1 1 . For one thing, we'd no idea then 
what sort of a chap Smith was. He might have 
been the most awful ruffian for all we knew. 
We've learnt since that he isn't. I've found out 
that— well, you know how I feel about him. So 
far as I'm concerned, I don't want you to marry 
him for any reason at all except that there's no 
chap in the world I'd sooner have for a brother- 
in-law. 

Betty. But I found out all that years ago. Why 
wouldn't you take my word for it ? 

Lady B. Dear, what is the use of arguing about 
what happened years ago? Indeed, what is the 
use of arguing at all ? . . . We none of us want 
you to give your hand where your heart isn't. 

Sir Den. Exactly ! Exactly ! As I said before, 
if you don't like Smith sufficiently to — to — well, 
there's an end of it. 

Betty. But I do like him. I like him very much. 
U's ^^ecause I like him so much that I want your 
.aU ;. 

SirL.... Well? 

Betty. In the first instance you all thought for me. 
Now I'm trying to think for you. 

Sir Den. {Bewildered) For us ? 

Betty. Yes. . . . Assuming that General Smith 
were to ask me to marry him, and I were to accept 
him, you'd still go on living in Sheffingham, I 
suppose ? 

Sir Den. Of course we should. 

Lady B. There isn't any reason why we shouldn't, 
is there ? 



no GENEKAL POST 

Betty. General Smith's brother will also go on 
living in Sheffingham. 

Sir Den. Well, what about it ? 

Betty. I just thought that you mightn't quite like 
being connected by marriage with the local tailor. 
It struck me that it might make things rather 
awkward for you. 

Sir Den. I don't see that at all. 

Betty. You'd have to include him and his wife in 
your visiting list. In fact, you'd have to ask them 
up to dinner every now and then. 

Sir Den. {^Distinctly perturbed) Would that be 
necessary, Marian ? 

Lady B. I see not the least occasion for it. 

Betty. Well, but think what would happen when 
we came to stay down here. The General would 
naturally want to go and see his brother, wouldn't he? 

Alec. Of course, he would. There's nothing of the 
snob about him. 

Betty. I should have to go with him. We might 
even have to stay with them. In which case 
they'd be certain to invite you to high tea, and 
you'd simply have to ask them back to dinner 
afterwards. 

Sir Den. {Shaken) We — we needn't have any- 
body to meet them, even if we did. 

Betty. Wouldn't that look rather pointed ? 

Sir Den. My dear girl, these things can be dealt 
with as and when they arise. It's no good meeting 
trouble half-way. It seems to me that your objec- 
tions are entirely frivolous. Besides, Smith will 
soon be above all that sort of thing. I have it on 
very good authority that, in recognition of the 
wonderful services he has rendered to the State, 
they intend to make him a Baronet. He'll be a 
Peer before he's finished. 



GENERAL POST in 

Betty. In which case the possession of a tailor 
brother will be regarded as an amusing eccentricity. 
Is that what you mean ? 

Sir Dennys begins to lose his temper. 

Sir Den. I don't mean anything of the sort. And 
I'm hanged if I'm going to explain what I do 
mean! If this is your idea of asking advice, it 
isn't mine. I dechne to discuss the subject any 
further. You must be left to work out your own 
salvation. 

Betty. We've all got to do that in any case. 

Sir Den. What's become of all your fine theories 
about " General Post," and so on ? You were 
ready enough to cram them down other people's 
throats, but you don't seem able to swallow them 
yourself. 

Lady B. {Intervening) Well now, dear, don't let's 
say any more about it. 

Sir Den. I'm not saying any more about it ! I've 
said all that I intend to say. . . . Smith's family 
have got nothing whatsoever to do with it. He's 
not asking Betty to marry his family ! 

Betty. He's not asked me to marry him yet. 

Sir Den. He will do — if you give him half a chance. 

Betty. I don't think he will. 

Sir Den. What d'you mean ? 

Betty. He's already refused me. 

Sir Den. Refused you ? 

Alec. But — good Lord ! — that sounds as if you'd 
proposed to him ! 

Betty. {Calmly) I did. 

Sir Den. Good Heavens ! . . . Well ! . . . Really ! 

Lady B. Betty ! You — you can't be serious ! 

Betty. I'm perfectly serious. . . . Oh, it's quite a 
long time ago. In fact, it was just after you'd said 



112 GENERAL POST 

that I wasn't to see him any more. That's what 
made me do it. But, as I say, he refused me. 

Sir Den. You mean to tell me you proposed to my 
tailor ? 

Betty. {Enjoying herself hugely) I proposed to the 
man you're asking me to marry. 

Sir Den. Well, all I've got to say is, if I were in 
Smith's place, I'm hanged if I'd have anything 
more to do with you ! I'd see you somewhere 
before I'd marry a girl who'd so demeaned herself 
as to propose to a tailor ! 
Betty bursts into a peal of genuine merriment. 

Betty. Oh, Father ! Father ! That's your master- 
piece ! 

Wilson enters. 

Wilson. General Smith, m'lady — in the drawing- 
room. 

Lady B. Thank you, Wilson. I'll come at once. 

Wilson goes out. 
Lady Broughton turns to her husband. 
You'd better come and receive him too, dear. 
Sir Den. After what Betty's said I don't feel that I 

can face him. 
Lady B. Nonsense ! Come along, dear. 
Sir Den. Well, really — upon my word — neVer — 
never in all my life ! — 

He is still muttering when the door closes 

behind him. 
Exeunt Lady Broughton and Sir Dennys. 

Betty. {Still laughing merrily) Wasn't that just 
splendid of father ? He'll never beat it ! Never ! 
— not if he lives to be a hundred. 

Her merriment evokes no response from Alec. 
His expression is gloomy. He sighs deeply. 



GENERAL POST 113 

Oh, what a dismal sigh ! . . . What's the matter ? 

Alec. I'm hanged if I can make you out ! 

Betty. Am I so very sphinx-like ? 

Alec. You're behaving damned badly, Betty ! 

Betty. My dear Alec !— really ! 

Alec. You must have known that Smith wasn't 
philandering. He's not the sort of chap who goes 
in for rot of that kind. 

Betty. Oh, please, do let's talk of something 
else. . . . Are you going to captain the Shefifingham 
cricket team this year ? 

Alec. Look here ! If I tell you something that, 
p'raps, I oughtn't to tell you, will you promise 
never to say a word about it to him ? 

Betty. {Sighing resignedly) Just as you like. 

Alec. There's nothing to be ashamed of in it. 
Only it may sound a bit sentimental — and a chap 
doesn't like to be thought sentimental. 

Betty. You're all ostriches — the whole sex of you ! 

Alec. You'll remember that just after that business 
at Cojada, we were both knocked out ? 

Betty. I remember. 

Alec. I only got a flesh wound, but it was touch and 
go with him. He nearly pegged out. Only one 
thing kept him alive — and that was his determina- 
tion to see you again. 

Betty. Did he tell you so ? 

Alec. That isn't the sort of thing a man tells even 
to his best pal. 

Betty. Then how do you know ? 

Alec. I had the next bed to him. He was suffering 
like the deuce. The doctor said he must be going 
through Hell. But you never heard a sound from 
him, except at night when be must have thought 
that nobody would hear him. I shouldn't have 
known anything about it if I hadn't been sleeping 
8 



114 GENERAL POST 

rather badly. The pain must have been awful, 
for every now and then he groaned — a queer, 
smothered sound — and after that I heard him 
whisper your name, just as though he were appeal- 
ing to you : — '' Betty ! Betty ! "... It was like a 
prayer for strength, and the thought of you seemed, 
somehow, to give it to him. 

Betty. {Much moved^ but determined not to show it) 
I'm not the only Betty in the world. 

Alec. You are, so far as he's concerned. You know 
you are ! . . . Look here, old girl, if you turn him 
down now, you'll break his heart, and, if you do 
that, you'll do something that I, for one, shall 
never be able to forgive you. I hate to see any 
girl playing cat and mouse with a man — no matter 
who he is. But when it comes to the best fellow in 
the world, and my sister — damn it ! — it's more than 
I can stick ! 

There is a momenfs pause before Betty goes 
up to her brother and lays her hand on his 
arm. 

Betty. Alec ! 

Alec. {Gloomily) Well ! 

Betty. I'm not altogether a beast. 

Alec. {Appealingly) Well, then, old girl- 



Betty. {Now thoroughly upset and very near to 

tears) But I can't marry him. 
Alec. {In blank a?nazement) Can't ? 
Betty. It— it wouldn't be right. 
Alec. {Alarmed) Betty! What on earth d'you 

mean? 

The voices of Lady Broughton, Smith, and 
Sir Dennys are heard in the hallway out- 
side. 



GENERAL POST 115 

Betty. Sh ! 

The voices draw nearer. 
Let's go into the garden. . . . Come along ! 

She takes her brother's arm, and pulls him 
through the open window into the garden. 

A second later, andl.KDY Brojjgktoi^, followed 
by Smith and Sir Dennys, cofnes into the 
room. They are continuing obviously a 
conversation commenced outside. 

Smith is i7i mufti. He has grown greyer than 
he was in the previous act ; but, otherwise, 
looks not a day older. He brings a square 
parcel into the room with him. This he 
deposits upon a chair or wherever may be 
most conve?iient. 

Smith. {Half laughing) I can quite understand 
that it annoyed you. 

Sir Den. It did annoy me for the moment, I 
confess — until 1 saw the funny side of it. It's 
one of those occasions on which one has to be 
grateful for a sense of humour. 

Smith. {Feeling free now to give unrestrained expression 
to his amusement) Ha, ha, ha ! Mullets ! — It 
certainly is funny ! . . . The fellow who reported 
you must be a person of imagination. 

Lady B. Most journalists seem to be that ! 

Smith. He must have thought that there were flying- 
fish in the Dardanelles, and that the Germans had 
trained them to " Rightfulness " ! They were quite 
capable of it ! 

Sir Den. Capital ! Capital ! D'you mind if I use 
that in the letter of protest I'm going to write to 
the editor ? 

Smith. Use it by all means, Sir Dennys. I'm 
delighted to make you a present of it. 



ii6 GENERAL POST 

Sir Den. Thank you^ Smith. It really is capital ! 

— capital ! 
Lady B. I wonder where the others have got to ? 

I felt sure we should find them in here. 
Sir Den. They'll be in in a minute — sure to be. 

{He turns to Smith) Sit down, my dear fellow. 
Smith. Thank you. ... As a matter of fact, Lady 
Broughton, I'm not at all sorry to find you and 
Sir Dennys alone. 
Lady B. {With polite interest) Oh.? 

She casts an expressive glance in the direction 
of her husband^ who begins^ immediately ^ to 
feel and to look uncomfortable. 

Sir Den. That's a very pretty compliment to pay to 

two old people, General. 
Smith. {As uncomfortable in his way as Sir Dennys 

is in his) I hope you won't feel otherwise when 

I've said what I want to say. 
Lady B. I'm sure we shan't. 
Smith. I hadn't intended to say anything about it 

to you — ^just for the present, anyhow. But — well, 

my hand's been forced, as it were. 

Sir Dennys is puzzled. This is clear from the 
look he gives to his wife. 

Sir Den. Nothing's occurred to — er — to worry you, 
I hope. 

Smith. Oh, no. I suppose I ought to be rather 
pleased about it than otherwise. . . . When I got 
back from the ball last night I found a telegram 
waiting for me. It was a summons to town. I 
shall have to go up to-night. 

Lady B. It's very unexpected, isn't it ? 

Smith. Not altogether, but 

Lady B. Does it mean that you'll have to remain in 
town ? 



GENERAL POST 117 

Smith. By this time to-morrow I shall be a hundred 
miles and more from England. 

Sir Den. You're going abroad ? 

Smith. Yes. 

Sir Den. For any length of time ? 

Smith. That depends. I shall be away for some 
months, I expect. . . . I'm afraid I'm not at 
liberty to tell you where I'm going, or what I'm 
going to do. It's nothing of any great importance. 
It's just to straighten out one of the hundred and 
one little tangles that always have to be straightened 
out after a war. 

Sir Den. A Government mission, eh ? . . . I con- 
gratulate you, my dear fellow. . . . That's splendid 
news, isn't it, Marian ? 

Lady B. It is, indeed. I should like to congratulate 
you too, General. 

Smith. Thank you very much. I only hope that I 
may manage to bring it off. 

Sir Den. I wouldn't mind gambling on it. 

Smith. It'll be a good thing for me, of course, if I do. 
But there's something I'd give a great deal more to 
bring off. It's about that I want to talk to you. 

Sir Den. ( Uncomfortably aware of ivhat is coining) 
Ah! 

Smith. I suppose it can't be a secret either to you or 
to your husband. Lady Broughton, that I — well, 
that I admire your daughter very much. 

Lady B. {Nervously) D'you mean — er ? 

Smith. I mean that I love her, Lady Broughton — 
that I have loved her for — for a very long time now. 

Sir Den. Well, upon my word, Smith, this is a 
surprise ! Isn't it, Marian ? 

Lady B. {Given no option but to acquiesce in this pre- 
posterous statement) Yes, dear, it's — a — a great 
surprise ! 



ii8 GENERAL POST 

Smith. Not a very welcome one, I'm afraid. 

Sir Den. On the contrary, my dear fellow. Speak- 
ing for my wife and myself, I'm sure there's nobody 
for whom we have a greater regard and admiration 
than we have for you. But — er 

Smith. {Disregarding the '■^buf^ in his enthusiasm) 
By George, Sir Dennys, it's good of you to have 
said that ! That's taken an enormous weight off 
my mind. I felt that I simply couldn't go away 
from Bet — er — Miss Broughton, without finding 
out whether it was to be " Yes " or " No." Now that 
I have your approval, I — I must just "put it to the 
touch to win or lose it all." It'll be a dreadful 
moment — far worse than going into the trenches 
for the first time ! 

Sir Den. You haven't made any mention of your 
feelings to Betty as yet then ? 

Smith. No — although I think she must know them. 
I suppose I'm a little old-fashioned in my ideas, 
but I felt it was my duty to speak to you and 
Lady Broughton first. And there's something 
else I think I ought to tell you. 

Lady B. That's a consideration that isn't often 
shown to parents nowadays, General. I thank 
you for it. Indeed, I appreciate it more than I 
can say. 

Sir Den. And so do I — so do I ! It's very good of 
you. Smith — very good of you. . . . Now then, 
what is this other dreadful confession that you 
desire to make ? 

Smith. Well, although, of course, I'm retiring from 
any active part in the tailoring business, I'm 
still retaining an interest in it — a considerable 
interest. 

Sir Den. Why, naturally, of course. It would be 
absurd to give up a good thing like that. 



GENERAL POST 119 

Smith. You really feel that ? 

Sir Den. 1 do, indeed. Dukes run dairies and 
Countesses have bonnet-shops. Why shouldn't 
a General make a hobby of a tailoring establish- 
ment? 

Smith. I'm very pleased you take that view of it, 
Sir Dennys. It's relieved my mind very much. 

Lady B. ( With ill-concealed anxiety) Were you 
thinking of speaking to Betty to-day ? 

Smith. I shall have to speak to her this morning. 

Sir Den. You don't mean before lunch ? 

Smith. I'm afraid it'll have to be before lunch. 
I shall be obliged to leave here directly afterwards 
in order to catch my train. 

Sir Den. Well, of course, my dear fellow, you 
must do as you feel to be best. But do you really 
think it's wise ? 

Smith. It's Hobson's choice so far as I'm concerned. 
But why shouldn't it be wise? 

Sir Den. Well — er — she got to bed very late last 
night, you know. 

Lady B. She didn't get to bed until this morning. 

Sir Den. No, no, of course — this morning. In 
fact, she's only just finished her breakfast, and — 
er — well, you know what people are just after 
breakfast. I should hardly have thought it the 
best time to put things to the test. 

Smith. It's the time to put them to the test. If a 
girl will accept a man directly after breakfast, you 
may be quite sure that she loves him with no 
ordinary love ! 

Alec enters by the window. He goes up to 
Smith and shakes hands with him. 

Alec. Now then, sir. How are you this morning ? 
Smith. Fit but sleepy. You ? 



I20 GENERAL POST 

Alec. Much the same way. 

He smothers a yawn. 
^uiTB. follows suit. 
Sir Den. {To Alec) Where's Betty ? 
Alec. I left her in the green-house, talking to the 

gardener. She'll be in in a minute. 
Lady B. Oh! Then perhaps we'd better— (7^^ 

Smith) You'd like us to leave you to — er ? 

Smith. Well, I think perhaps 

Sir Den. Of course ! Of course ! {He moves to the 

door) Come along, my dear. 

Alec looks in puzzled fashion from one to 
another of the group. His mother sees the 
necessity of some explanation. 

Lady B. General Smith has been called, unex- 
pectedly, to town. He's leaving England to-night, 
and, before he goes, he — he has something to say 
to your sister. 

Alec turns in astonishment to Smith. 

Alec. You going abroad? This is jolly sudden, isn't it? 

Smith. It's come sooner than I expected, but I had 
had a hint of it before. 

Alec. Some official business ? 

Smith. Yes, a little Government job. Nothing 
much. But it may keep me away for several 
months. 

Sir Den. {Agitatedly) Just so — just so. Now, 
really, I think we ought to be going. I've no 
doubt Smith'll tell you more about it after lunch, 
Alec. 

Smith. If I'm able to remain to lunch. 

Sir Den. Eh? . . . Oh, yes, yes, I see what you 
mean. Yes, of course, in that case I quite under- 
stand you wouldn't care to stay. . . . But — er — 



GENERAL POST 121 

well, let's hope there'll be no need for anything of 

the sort. 
Lady B. I'm sure we all hope that. 
Smith. That's very nice of you. 
Sir Den. Yes — yes ! Well, come along, my dear. 

Come along ! 

He half drags, half pushes Lady Broughton 
out of the room. 
Alec. There's no need for me to say anything, is 

there ? You know how I feel about it. But — 

{His tone is gloomy in the extreme) 
Smith. " But me no buts," Alec ! 
Alec. Well, the only thing is — 

He hesitates. 
Smith takes his meaning. 
Smith. You don't think I stand an earthly ! 
Alec's silence gives consent. 
Smith continues : — 
Well, I'm the only person who can make sure of 
that, and faint heart never won fair lady ! If 
you're right I — I'm damned glad that I'm going 
abroad to-night ! 

Alec's heart is too full for words. He holds 
out his hand with an impetuous gesture. 
Smith understands, and grasps it. He says 
quietly : — 
Thanks, old man. 

Alec turns on his heel abruptly, and goes out. 
Left to himself Smith proceeds to strip the 
wrappings from the parcel which he brought 
into the room with him. These removed, 
there is displayed a large box of chocolates 
elaborately tied with cherry -coloured ribbons. 
Smith smiles to himself as he regards it. 



122 GENERAL POST 

Betty appears at the ivindow. Smith's back 
is turned to her. On observing that he is 
alone in the room, she hesitates and seems 
inclined, at first, to go away again. Eventu- 
ally, however, she decides otherwise, and, 
standing in the centre of the opening, calls out 
to him suddenly : — 

Betty. All alone in your glory ? 

Smith springs to his feet, and, as he turns to 
face her, conceals the box of chocolates behind 
his back. 

Smith. Ah ! So you are up, Miss Broughton ! 
Betty. Of course I'm up ; but I'm horribly sleepy 

and dreadfully bad-tempered — and I don't think 

even the chocolates were worth it. 
Smith. (^Stimulating perplexity) Chocolates ? 
Betty. Yes ! Chocolates ! Those that you've got 

tucked behind your back there. 

Smith laughs as he brings them into view. 
Smith. You've got to prove to me first that you've 

won them ! 
Betty. Won't you take my word for it ? 
Smith. I didn't see you about when I arrived. 
Betty. That isn't to say that I wasn't about. You 

can't have been here for more than twenty minutes, 

and I must have been down — oh, hours before 

that. At least I feel as if I'd been waiting for you 

for hours. 
Smith. {Laughingly) The evidence is conclusive ! 

I surrender my stake. 

He hands the box to her with a courtly bow. 

Betty. Oh, what a lovely, big box ! — and my 
favourite make ! . . . Did you know they were my 
favourites ? 



GENERAL POST 123 

Smith. I make it my business to know everything. 

Betty. What a nasty, inquisitive person you must 
be ! {She removes the lid from the box and holds it 
out to him) Have one ? 

Smith. If you can find me a hard one. 

Betty. D'you really like the hard ones? That's 
rather nice of you. I can't bear them. I adore 
the soft ones. {She selects a chocolate and gives it 
to him) There I think that's a hard one. 

Smith makes trial of it. 

Smith. Brff ! . . . It's a nasty, squashy thing ! 
Betty. It isn't polite to talk with your mouth 

full! 
Smith. You know I'm glad you like the soft ones 

and I like the hard ones. 
Betty {Munching busily) Why ? 
Smith. I think it's a good omen. 
Betty. What of ? 
Smith. You'll see in a minute. . . . I'm going 

abroad to-night. 
Betty. Don't talk nonsense ! 
Smith. I am, really. 
Betty. What for ? 
Smith. Oh, some official business that I'm not 

allowed to tell you, and that would only bore you 

stiff if I did. 
Betty. Well, I hope you won't be sea-sick ! 
Smith. That's very nice and thoughtful of you ! 

. . . Don't you hope anything else ? 
Betty. What do you want me to hope ? 
Smith. Well, that I shall come safely back again. 
Betty. Oh, you'll do that all right. You're the 

kind of person who always comes back. 
Smith. Where he isn't wanted — eh ? 
Betty, I didn't say so. 



124 GENERAL POST 

Smith. You implied it. That's always been my 

luck. It must be rather nice to be wanted. 
Betty. You've become dreadfully serious all of a 

sudden. 
Smith. I feel serious. It makes one feel serious to 

realize that one's getting on in life, and that one 

has nothing to look forward to but a lonely old age. 
Betty. Poor old Methuselah ! 
Smith. That's what it's coming to. 
Betty. What's the matter with the dream-woman ? 

Hasn't she been giving satisfaction lately ? 
Smith. ( With restrained passion) I can't make 

believe any longer ! I can't hold a shadow in my 

arms ! I want the substance. 

A pause. Betty averts her eyes as Smith 
draws nearer to her. She has grown now 
as serious as he. 

Betty, I love you. 
Betty. {In a low^ strained voice) I know. 
Smith. Don't you love me ? 
Betty. Once upon a time, when I asked you that 

question, you said you mustn't answer it. It's the 

same with me now. 
Smith. I don't understand. Why on earth shouldn't 

you answer it ? 
Betty. For the same reason that you felt you 

mustn't answer me. I'm not going to spoil your 

life. . . . You've fallen in love with a dream-woman 

— an ideal — not with me. You don't know the 

real me. If you did, you'd 

Smith interrupts her — almost violently. 

Smith. I do know the real you ! I know all that's 
divine in you, and all that's — that's just human. 
It's the human you that makes me want you so. 
I've got no use for a paragon of all the virtues. My 



GENERAL POST 125 

dream -woman wasn't a saint. She was just a 
natural, healthy, human girl — with all her faults 
and all her weaknesses. And that's what every man 
— who is a man — would wish his mate to be. 

There comes a pause. Betty is shaken., but 
strives hard not to show it. She persists : — 

Betty. I'm going to show you the real me. {She 
holds up a hand to check the protest that Smith 
would have made othenvise) Please ! . . . There 
was once a girl who fell in love with her father's 
tailor. She thought she had only to tell him so 
to — to make him her slave. She offered to marry 
him. He refused. 

Smith. He was in honour bound to. 

Betty, Oh, yes, I realize that now. But I didn't 
realize it then. It brought all the snob — the snob 
that I'd prided myself wasn't in me — to the sur- 
face. I felt that I'd made myself cheap in the eyes 
of a man, who — oh, forgive me ! — was my inferior. 
I hated myself, and I m,ade myself hate you. I 
prayed for a chance to hurt and humiliate you as 
I'd persuaded myself into believing that you'd hurt 
and humiliated me. I cherished the thought of it 
for years. At last the chance came. I took it. 
It was just before you went to the Front — d'you 
remember ? 

Recollection affects Smith more than he desires 
to admit. He answers the question affirma- 
tively by a motion of his head. Betty con- 
tinues., with a pitiful little attempt at a 
laugh : — 
It didn't turn out quite the success that I'd antici- 
pated. I hurt myself far more than I hurt you, 
and I hated myself as I'd never hated anything in 
the world before. . . . But it was not until the 



126 GENERAL POST 

news came that you'd been wounded that my real 

punishment began. 

Smith turns to her i?i rapturous amazement. 
He exclaims in tone of wonder — almost 
of incredulity : — 
Smith. You've suffered like that because of me ! 
Betty. People who throw boomerangs must expect 

them to come back again. 
Smith. {A fierce joy in his voice) Betty, you love 

me ! 
Betty. I love you so much that, for your sake, I'm 

going to endure my punishment to the bitter end. 
Smith {Genuinely puzzled) What do you mean ? 
Betty. I'm not worthy of you. I've failed you 

once, when you needed me most. How do I know 

that I shouldn't fail you again ? You mustn't take 

any risks. . . . You've got to marry somebody 

who'll be of real use to you — somebody who'll 

Despite his emotion^ a twinkle comes into Smith's 
eye. 
Smith. Mayn't I be allowed to decide for myself 

whom I'm going to marry ? 
Betty. Well, I — I suppose you'll have to in the 

end. 
Smith. Then I'll decide right away. So far as I'm 

concerned, the world holds just one woman — and 

that's you. 

Betty shakes her head. 
Betty. No, no ! 

Smith. Do you refuse to marry me ? 
Betty. I must. 
Smith. That's your last word ? 
Betty. Yes. 

Smith. {Gaily) Splendid! That makes us quits ! 
Betty looks up at him in blank amazement. 



GENERAL POST 127 

I've refused you once. You've refused me once. 
Now we can start all over again with a clean sheet. 

Betty. {Compelled to laughter in spite of herself) 
Oh, you're impossible ! 

Smith. Of course I am. That's why I get on so 
well. . . . The impossible always comes off ! . . . 
For the second time of asking, will you marry me? 

Betty. No, no, really, I've quite made up my mind. 

Smith. Very well ! Then I shall stay here until you 
exercise your sex's privilege of changing it. 

Betty. In that case I'm afraid you won't be able to 
leave England to-night. 

Smith. And you'll have the satisfaction of knowing 
that you really have ruined my career ! 

Betty. I call that a mean advantage to take. 

Smith. Oh, well, I suppose I can always go back 
and start as a tailor again. Think of the sign 
I could put up over the shop-door : " Edward 
Smith, V.C. The only Brigadier-General in this 
street who received ;2ri2 per week as foreman- 
cutter " ! . . . That'd fetch 'em, wouldn't it ? 

Betty. As I've said before, you're impossible ! 

A discreet cough outside the door gives warning 
of Wilson's approach. He enters. 

Wilson. Beg pardon, miss, but you're wanted on 

the telephone. 
Betty. Who is it, Wilson. 
Wilson. Mrs Wykeham, miss. 
Betty. Oh, bother ! 

Wilson. Can I give her any message, miss ? 
Betty. Yes, Wilson, you might — ^just tell her I'm 

engaged. 

A beaming senile spreads over Wilson's face. 
He exclaims in high delight : — 
Wilson. Oh miss, I am glad I May I take the 



128 GENERAL POST 

liberty of bein' the first to congratulate you ? It's 
what we've all been hopin' for. 
Betty. {Very jnuch confused) Oh really, Wilson, 
I didn't mean 

Smith moves to her side and takes her arm in his. 

Smith. Miss Broughton meant just what she said, 

Wilson. 
Wilson. Then I congratulate you too, sir. 
Smith. Thank you, Wilson. 
Wilson. Thank you, sir. I'm sure the news'll be 

very gratifyin' to ev'rybody. 

He goes out. 

Smith. Good old Wilson ! We shall really have to 
make him a very handsome present. That's the 
second time he's been the God from the machine 1 

Betty. You really are impossible ! 

Smith. By this time he's telling the glad news to 
Mrs Wykeham, and in another hour it'll be all 
over Sheffingham. You can't get out of it now. 

Betty. I — I — I didn't say I wanted to get out of it. 

Smith (^As he takes her in his arms) My dear ! 

The Curtain Falls. 



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